


Blood of the Covenant

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: F/M, I hope nothing comes off as weird, I know the Awakening trio didn't come in until way later but fuck it, I personally ship marx and kamui to the moon and back but the ages made that kinda uncomfy, I'd rather write about them than make up some bullshit retainers, Like, a marx-centric pre-canon au, also non-localized names bc fuck the name xander okay that's all, listen this timeline makes no sense okay, other than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: "Your vulnerability is safe with me. I will never turn it into a weapon.” -Ivanna Co.(Marx stares at the girl—taking in her bare feet, pointed ears, and crimson eyes. He then extends a hand)





	Blood of the Covenant

"She's just up these stairs, milord."

Gunther's voice is a deep rumble in his chest as he lifts the lantern in his hand a little higher to illuminate the steps. The flickering firelight throws shadows across his face, highlighting the places where battles and age have carved out their place.

Prince Marx nods stiffly, trying not to shiver as he draws his cloak tighter around himself, following the knight up the narrow stairway.

"Is this part of the castle not kept warm?" Marx asks as they continue their climb.

Gunther laughs hoarsely, and his breath clouds before him. Marx's jaw tightens. He has his answer.

"No one's lived in the Northern Fortress for ages, milord," Gunther explains. He grabs the young man's arm, quickly pulling him off his course. "Watch your step. This staircase is crumbling."

Sure enough, the stonework begins to collapse where the prince had stood just a moment before, and he eyes it darkly as they climb higher.

"Is this _safe?"_ Marx demands, still frowning at the ruined patch of staircase. "The girl could die if she isn't careful moving about this tower."

Gunther casts the prince a sideways look as they reach the top of the stairs.

"If I may speak frankly, milord," the old knight rumbles. "I doubt the thought crossed His Majesty's mind."

His words draw a scowl from the prince—an expression of deep disdain already familiar on his young face. Gunther would feel sorry for him—ten and five is too early for such anger and scorn—but there is no other way to survive in Castle Krakenburg.

One must armor themselves in their hate, lest they be overtaken by the backstabbing liars that fill this place.

"A fair assessment," the prince remarks stiffly as they arrive at the landing. Gunther reaches out to pull open the door, but pauses when Marx lifts a hand.

"Milord?" Gunther asks, but Nohr's heir pays him no mind as he raps twice on the ancient wood, the sound echoing loudly in the lofty tower.

Silence answers the summon, and neither man is surprised.

"Guard the stairwell," Marx orders him lowly, and Gunther obediently steps back to do so as the prince pulls the door open and sweeps inside, pitch cloak swirling behind him like a wayward shadow as the air rushes out.

The room is sheer cold—a raw, biting chill that steals the breath from Marx's chest as he exhales a shaky cloud through gritted teeth. He steps inside, pushing the door shut behind him—what, to not let the cold in?—and makes a note to pull whatever strings he must in order to warm this room by tomorrow.

"Hello?" he calls, glancing around. The room is small, backlit by the moon's pale glow and washed out in its eerie silver light. Marx takes another step, and hears a small sharp intake of breath.

His eyes snap to the noise—dark gaze picking her out in the whiteout of the room.

She cuts an impossibly small figure, silhouetted against the Nohrian moonlight as she is. Her hair is matted and darkened with blood—eyes wide and fearful and as red as the crimson stains on her dress.

Marx stares, completely at a loss.

A child.

 _"A Hoshidan princess,"_ his father's retainer had announced.

 _"A bargaining chip,"_ Gunther had murmured darkly.

Marx cannot bring himself to look away—trapped in her troubled ruby gaze. A _child._

His thoughts spring to Elise and Leon—both children in their own right, this girl hardly older than them—and he grits his teeth as panic blooms hot and tight in his chest.

This is wrong. This is so terribly, terribly _wrong—_

The prince swallows hard, dropping down into a crouch to level himself with her. She's still a few feet away, and he doesn't dare move closer.

"It's all right," Marx murmurs, calling upon the low, gentle tone he reserves for his siblings and spooked horses. He holds out a hand, but she gasps and spins away, hiding her face in the tattered curtains that hang from the window.

Marx watches her for a moment before smoothly withdrawing his hand, berating himself.

Of course she'd be afraid of him. Of _course_. She's young and scared and alone and covered in her father's blood. She is a thousand miles from home and locked in a drafty fortress with strangers at every turn.

He watches her, idly wondering if he'd not been in the room when his father had returned—if he'd not heard of the girl's arrival himself and decided to investigate—if anyone would have come to check on her.

The thought—and its definitive answer—makes his blood boil in the frozen room.

"My name is Marx," he tells her softly, still holding her gaze. He's not sure if he could look away if he tried. Her eyes are luminous in the dark of the tower—glowing like cursed rubies as she peers at him from around the curtain. They draw him in like moth and flame. "May I hear yours?"

He lets the silence wash over them, content to go at her pace—he knows what it feels like to be pushed and prodded and provoked—and in the settling quiet, hears a strange noise he hadn't caught before.

A bizarre series of clicks? Marx tilts his head, glancing around as he tries to place the sound, and realizes it's coming from the girl—who stands trembling with cold, teeth chattering as she tries desperately to hide herself in the ruined curtains.

Marx's heart—ironclad and cold like the country he will inherit—crumbles to dust at the sight.

In a swift movement that startles a gasp out of the girl, Marx unclasps his cloak and removes it with a flourish, the thick wool heavy in his hands as he folds it up as neatly as he can and sets in on the floor before him.

The girl seems torn between eyeing the strange new parcel and keeping the prince in her sights, so Marx decides to make things easier for her and leave. He taps the cloak as he rises, meeting her gaze as kindly as he can.

"For you, if you'd like it," he tells her gently.

Her blood-red gaze drops down to the cloak, but then darts up to his just as quickly. She doesn't move.

With a quiet sigh, Marx straightens back to his full height—unable to miss how the girl shrinks from him as he does so—and turns to leave, rejoining Gunther back on the landing as he closes the door to her room behind him.

Gunther lifts a split eyebrow as the prince idly inspects the tarnished lock and keyhole, adding more things to his growing list.

"That was quick," he notes, and Marx just hums noncommittally, still lost in his thoughts.

"When does my father plan to return her?" he eventually asks, cutting a sideways glance at Gunther.

The old guard lifts his eyebrows, weathered face awash in the flickering fire of his lantern.

"Return her, milord?" he questions, uncertainty coating his words.

Marx waves a hand impatiently. "Yes, _return_ her. To Hoshido. To her home."

Gunther just stares back at him—as he often does—simply waiting for the young prince to come to his own conclusion. That knowing look of a teacher, silently urging him on…

_Come now, Marx. You're a smart lad. Figure it out. You can do it._

"He means to keep her here." The chill of Marx's realization could rival the frigidity of a Nohrian winter. "Indefinitely."

Gunther gazes back at him, expression painfully neutral, and Marx looks away with a disgusted scoff—curse his father to all seven Hells—and begins to descend the staircase.

"Milord?" Gunther calls after him, hastening to follow. "Prince Marx, where are you going?"

"To get firewood and spare blankets," Marx returns bitterly. The chill of the fortress rushes to meet him as he makes his way down, and he reflexively reaches for the clasp of his cloak to draw it tighter, when he remembers it is now in the possession of another.

-0-

"Ah, well met, Prince—"

Lazward's cheerful greeting is cut off as Marx goes striding past him—expression hard, the dark fabric of his cloak swirling at his heels like a storm cloud. Lazward blinks, taking a moment to allow himself a small sigh of resignation.

It's going to be one of _those_ days, it seems.

He has not been in the service of Nohr's Crown Prince for very long—only a handful of weeks—and it has been a difficult adjustment for both of them. As far as the grey-haired swordsman can tell, his lord wants nothing to do with him.

It is a sentiment that Lazward would fully respect, if not for the fact that he is responsible for keeping Lord Marx alive and well. Something he can not very well do with the prince always ten paces ahead of him.

"Milord?" Lazward tries again, spinning around to follow the Crown Prince through the halls of Castle Krakenburg.

"Be gone, Lazward," Marx orders coldly, not even sparing his retainer a backwards glance as he continues his brisk walk. "This does not concern you."

"You are clearly upset, Prince," Lazward counters, determinedly undeterred as he strides after his charge. "As your retainer, it is my duty—"

"Your duty is to do as I say," Marx returns as the pair turns a corner. "And I say to leave me _be."_

The prince stops then, looking around with an annoyed set to his jaw as guards and servants and nobles bustle around him.

"Where the _hells_ has Pieri gotten off to?" he demands, sweeping the chamber once more, searching for a flash of multi-colored hair that belongs to his retainer.

Lazward frowns, affronted. "You're tearing the castle apart to find _Pieri_ but tell _me_ to leave you _be—"_

"Pieri!"

The cavalier looks up sharply from where she'd just strolled in, pigtails bouncing as she spots the source of the call. Her face breaks into a wide grin.

"Oh! Lord Marx! Lazward!" she greets cheerfully, skipping across the floor to meet them. "So good to see you! I just got back from a ride, you see, I was—"

"Pieri, do you have any old clothes of yours?" Marx cuts her off deftly, knowing there is absolutely no way to word his request in any way that resembles delicacy, and resolving to remedy this by just plowing through the question.

The highborn retainer wrinkles her nose at the inquiry, sunny mood souring at his bizarre demand.

"Any of _my_ clothes?" she asks, her usual childish lilt somewhat weighed down by suspicion. "I suppose so. Why?"

Marx just grits his teeth. "A guest has need of spare clothes, and as far as I can tell, you are the closest her size."

It's a lie on several fronts—most notably the fact that the girl locked in the Northern Fortress is as much a _guest_ as the prisoners in the dungeons are, and her size falls much closer to Leon's—but Marx relays it smoothly all the same, expression expectant, as if there is nothing odd about this in the slightest.

His retainers exchange quick glances with each other, as though verifying that neither of them are in on the game.

"A _guest?"_ Lazward now, a dubious drawl to his words as he lifts an eyebrow, looking back at Marx. "Really? And why have none of us heard of this?"

Marx bristles under his disbelief.

"What, you think your status as _retainers_ grants you special permission to know every little detail?" The words are harsher than he intends, trying to cover up his panic with anger.

Lazward shrugs, unruffled by his lord's temper. "You hate guests, Prince. You complain about them endlessly."

Pieri nods, one hand on her hip. "Yeah. Remember when that diplomat from the Ice Tribe came? We took so many rides around the Castle grounds to avoid her that we probably outrode the _border_ patrol."

Marx works his jaw, silently stewing.

He knows— _objectively_ —it makes perfect sense that his retainers can peg his mood to perfection, but being read so easily grates the prince nonetheless.

They're still strangers, really. Aren't they?

"She is a rather…unusual guest," Marx hedges, grinding his teeth as he debates how much information he's willing to part with.

Pieri and Lazward watch him as he deliberates—eyes of bronze and blush—as time slips by, silently.

"Milord," Lazward cuts in gently, lifting his eyebrows. "With all the respect in the word—if you don't trust us, who _do_ you trust?"

It's a fair point—most of the grey-haired swordsman's points are. These are his _retainers_ —sworn shields and swords. Marx hasn't known them for long, but he's seen them fight, and their skill makes up for a lot of lost time.

Pieri, a relentless force of death and destruction atop her horse, pale, laughing face splashed ruby as she cuts down enemy after enemy after enemy.

Lazward, a peerless swordsman who moves about the battlefield with the precision and confidence of a dancer and fights with the skill of a seasoned veteran.

Who _can_ he trust—if not the people sworn to him?

He thinks of the girl in the tower. What right does he have to horde her like some kind of secret?

With a very put-upon sigh, Marx lowers his voice as his retainers lean in expectantly.

"She is a Hoshidan princess," he grits out—teeth clamping down on the words, trying to bite back the secret.

"A Hoshidan princess?" Lazward gasps, and the prince spins on him, eyes alight with anger as he suddenly looms above his retainer.

 _"Keep your voice down!"_ he hisses, and Lazward backs off, hands held up in surrender.

"Really? How fun! What's she like?" Pieri chips, head tilted to the side, cheerfully unbothered by Marx's quick flash of temper. "Why's it such a big secret?"

Marx's eyes cut to hers, but he can't seem to keep up his anger against the cavalier's innocent curiosity.

"She is…young," he manages, gaze snapping back to Lazward as though daring him to repeat any of this. Lazward can't help but crack a smirk—he's an old hand at keeping secrets.

Pieri's delighted gasp draws Marx back.

 _"Really?"_ she asks, eyes wide. "Like a baby?"

Marx sighs. This is the _opposite_ of what he wanted. How do his retainers always achieve that?

"She is a few years older than Leon," he explains in a hushed voice, gesturing for the pair to follow him as he moves the conversation out of the open hall and into the garden. The light rain is growing colder as the sun dips down, turning it more into a freezing slush as the three stand under an elegant overhang.

"So…nine?" Lazward guesses, quirking a brow. "Ten?"

"What's her name?" Pieri presses, eyes still shining even in the gloom of the grayscale sky.

Marx treats them both to looks of dark caution, warning them not to push the issue.

"I…I don't know her name yet," he says lowly, voice heavy like he's parting with a deep, jealously guarded secret. Perhaps he is. "As far as I know, no one in the castle even knows she exists, save for Father, his retainers, and Gunther."

His explanation pulls looks of concern from Lazward and Pieri, who both move closer to him in alarm, speaking over each other—

"She's been alone this whole time? Lord Marx, you should have _told_ us, we could have—"

"Has she been getting regular meals? What part of the castle is she in? Why does _Gunther_ always know everything—?"

 _"Enough!"_ Marx's sharp command renders both of his retainers silent, and the prince sighs heavily, suddenly weary. He's been working twice as hard to keep up with his own duties—as Crown Prince of a floundering kingdom, there are no shortage of things that need his attention— _and_ attend the Hoshidan princess as best he can.

Bringing Pieri and Lazward into the fold would be incredibly beneficial—both to him _and_ the girl. Marx flicks his gaze between the two retainers, mulling it over and dully realizing how curious it is that he'll trust these two to take a lance for him but hesitates at the prospect of allowing them into the little world he's made with the young princess.

He tries not to dwell on it.

"What size clothes, milord?" Pieri prompts in her cheery tone, head tilted as she considers her lord, drawing his gaze. "A princess deserves something better than secondhand dresses, after all, and I don't think they ever quite removed all the bloodstains…"

Lazward shoots a slightly disgusted, highly distressed look at his comrade while the prince reflects on her words.

"She's rather small," Marx offers vaguely. When Lazward and Pieri simply stare back at him, he flushes darkly, spreading his hands. "What? You think I've taken her _measurements?"_

"You should," Lazward puts in. "Then Pieri can go pick something up from a tailor in town. You have siblings, we could pass it off as easy as that."

Pieri seems to ponder it. "Yeah, I think that'd work. And if anyone asks questions, we can just kill them!"

Lazward's disgustedly distressed expression is back—Marx briefly wonders how many times a day he pulls that face after one of Pieri's gruesome suggestions—but under Marx's questioning stare, he nods.

"Very well," Marx murmurs. "I leave it to you, then."

And just like that, the secret grows.

-0-

"I apologize, I'm sure you're much more accustomed to Hoshidan food."

The girl glances up at him—her gaze always guarded and curious and _red_ —and shrugs in reply before looking back at her meal.

Marx watches her eat for a moment—pleased, at least, she's taken to that without complaint. She'd spurned the first meal he brought her, and he'd been up until dawn that night, worrying himself sick over how he was going to get her to eat something.

The next morning, he'd brought her as much food as he could smuggle from the kitchens, and she'd wolfed it down wordlessly.

She still hasn't spoken, a fact Marx tries not to overthink. What would she have to say to _him_ —the son of her father's murderer, the heir to her kingdom's greatest enemy?

So the pair of them sit in silence as Marx picks at a piece of fruit and she spoons up the stew he'd brought her. The clothes Pieri and Lazward had retrieved for her are a bit too large (he hadn't _actually_ measured her, for fear of encroaching on her personal space, but had offered his best guess) but they're warm and they're clean and she doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

He notices she keeps the small chamber tidy—not particularly difficult with her shortage of personal effects—and all her clothes are folded neatly at the foot of her bed.

To his slight curiosity, he spies his cloak among them, a bit mussed as though it'd been worn.

He adds it to the list of things he's definitely not thinking about.

"If there is something in particular you would like…" Marx begins, voice soft and quiet in the small space. He hardly recognizes it after an afternoon of listening to it bounce back off the walls of the throne room—loud and booming as he orders and decrees on his father's behalf.

He wonders if the princess would recognize that voice.

_Things he's definitely **not** thinking about._

"…I implore you to tell me," Marx concludes hastily, realizing he'd trailed off a bit in the middle of his sentence. He drops his gaze to the fruit in his hands. "I can make no guarantees, but I will do my upmost to give you anything you want."

"Why?"

Marx's gaze swings back to hers a bit wildly, and he finds her fixing him with that same curiously guarded crimson stare.

_Why?_

The first word she's spoken. How appropriate.

_Why indeed, little princess?_

"Because…" Marx casts his mind around, unable to skirt her eyes. "Because you are under my care."

Her nose wrinkles with confusion, eyebrows slanting down.

Marx could almost laugh. She looks so like Leon when she does that.

"Something amiss?" he queries, eyeing her as he continues peeling the fruit.

He knows it's unkind to bait her into speaking, but he's intrigued by the strange cadence of her voice—high and rough like a tarnished bell.

She levels a look at him.

"I'm under _your_ care?" she repeats, and there's a sliver of steel in her voice now—stronger than the whispered _why._

Nohr's Prince eyes her carefully, noting the sudden sharpness and urging himself not to take it personally.

"Yes?" The lilt at the end of his voice makes it a question as he peers at her, frowning slightly. "Are you…dissatisfied with that?"

It's an absurd question to ask of a girl who is—despite Marx's best efforts—a prisoner. She was taken here by force after watching her father _die._ What is there to _not_ be dissatisfied with?

She watches him silently for a moment, and he wonders what she's turning over in her head—

"So _you're_ the reason I'm here?"

The accusation is chilling, but riddled with hesitance. Marx watches her watch him, realizing her fledgling trust in him is teetering on a knife's edge.

If he's not careful, it will all be for nothing.

 _"No,"_ Marx tells her—quickly and firmly, voice darkening at her implication. "Absolutely not. I had no hand in the circumstances that brought you here. I only heard about them secondhand—after it was too late."

He can feel her gaze on him—as hot and red as live embers—and the truth is drawn out of him under her stare.

"Your father—King Sumeragi—was a man of incredible honor," Marx murmurs, lowering is eyes, because he's not in the business of lying to anyone—even his enemies. This girl deserves the truth at the very least. "He should not have died in such a cowardly manner." He feels the young princess' eyes on him, but cannot bring himself to meet her gaze.

"He should not have died at all." The girl's voice is like hot ashes, and Marx inclines his head in silent agreement.

An uneasy quietness blankets the room, and Marx wonders if he has lost any unstable trust he might have had with the girl.

"Will I ever go home?" Her voice is suddenly very small, and Marx feels ill.

He imagines a terrible world—one where _his_ sibling had been taken instead of theirs. A world where Elise or Camilla or Leon or Aqua sit opposite some Hoshidan royal like this princess sits before him now—alone and frightened and powerless to change their fate, their father dead, their family a hundred miles away—

Marx grits his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly against the phantom pain the thoughts bring.

What would he want someone to say to them?

His eyes flicker open. The girl is staring at him.

"I will do everything I can to see you safely back to Hoshido, little princess," he murmurs. _"Everything."_

The single word burns with sincerity, and the girl just gazes back at him silently, before her chin tilts up, causing the sun to catch on tear tracks that shine brightly on her pale skin—so faint he'd missed them before.

"Good," she replies, and her voice is stronger and steadier than even he's managed on some of his best days. Her crimson eyes gleam like raw rubies in the sunlight. "I will too."

-0-

"I didn't know you were such a devout student of history, Lord Marx."

The Prince's gaze flickers up from the books he'd been inspecting to level an annoyed look at the wall before him, resisting a sigh of exasperation as Macbeth's voice drifts over to him.

Gods give him patience.

"Macbeth," he greets stiffly, turning to see where the tactician stands a few feet across library. As loath as he is to speak to the man, having his back to him is an infinitely worse prospect.

"Quite a few books on Hoshido there, my lord," the man remarks, eyes dropping to survey the tomes in Marx's grip. The Prince is dully cheered their mutual dislike allows them to skip false formalities. "A curious selection."

Marx works his jaw, arching a severe eyebrow. Leon is the clever one of them, no doubt—but he is nobody's fool.

"You do not oversee my education, Macbeth," Marx reminds him. "And I don't recall asking your opinion."

Macbeth's pale, gaunt face splits in a grin. A muscle tics in Marx's jaw.

"Of _course."_ Marx remembers when Elise had brightly remarked how Macbeth seemed like a sugary snake before promptly being hushed by himself and Camilla. He finds he agrees with the youngest princess' assessment—the man possesses a sickening serpentine sweetness. "Forgive me, Lord Marx. I was only curious."

"Well, if your curiosity is sated, I'd ask you to move along." Marx stares him down. "I cannot imagine you have the time to waste standing here with me."

Macbeth doesn't move. Marx hadn't really thought he would—for being a Crown Prince, no one ever seems to listen to him.

"I simply can't imagine what our dear future King could possibly find in books about that _horrid_ place." The cadence of Macbeth's speech reminds Marx of the scrape of knives on porcelain plates—high, keening, and dreadful. He feels his lip curl despite his best efforts.

"Disliking Hoshido will not solve our problems with it," Marx tells him stiffly, adjusting the books in his grip. _Much like disliking_ _ **me**_ _will not solve any of_ _ **your**_ _problems,_ he thinks bitterly.

Macbeth's eyes gleam, and Marx swears the slippery man is reading his very mind.

"You aren't… _hiding_ anything, are you, Prince?" Macbeth lifts his eyebrows, and Marx just gazes evenly at him.

 _Gods_ but this man flirts with his temper.

"Tread lightly, Macbeth," Marx warns. "You are the King's advisor, but I am his _son."_

"Awfully defensive," the tactician notes, stepping closer. Marx tracks him warily. He's not about to start a brawl in the library but if that worm of a man gets _any_ closer—

"You have a way of twisting words and feelings," Marx remarks coldly. "Forgive me for being firm."

He hates this dance of taunt and tease—has no stomach for the dark mind games his father's court plays. Camilla thrives under the masquerade of it all, but Marx struggles to keep his footing. Macbeth just grins crookedly at him.

"You are not fooling anyone, Prince." He laughs hoarsely, and Marx clenches his fingers around the spines of the books, wishing blindly for his sword—

The tactician continues, spurned on by Marx's silent anger. "Your father notes your absences. He knows where you've been—we all do." He smirks, sporting yellowed teeth.

"You think you're the only one who knows what's in the Northern Fortress?"

Marx's whole chest seizes up at that, but he forces himself to strike back.

"Disfavor does not disavow _blood."_ Marx's voice is a rumble in his chest. "Say whatever you'd like to my father, Macbeth—you will _never_ achieve a higher status than me."

He steps closer—only a boy of fifteen, not nearly done growing but allowing his anger to seep into his bones, to radiate out and _burn—_

"If I _ever_ see you near the Northern Fortress, there is no magic in the world that could save you."

He lets his words hang for a moment—allows himself to revel in the ugly twist of Macbeth's expression—before he turns sharply on his heel and storms out of the library, cloak snapping behind him.

His feet have long-since memorized the path to the Northern Fortress—a place that only a few months ago he routinely forgot existed—and before long he's knocking on the door and letting himself in.

That rush of cold he felt his first fateful night has been replaced by a friendly, welcoming warmth—a fire crackles in the fireplace, probably lit by Gunther, and a handful of lit candles are scattered about.

The girl is looking over her shoulder at him when he opens the door, seated on a stool situated before the room's only window.

"Hello, little princess," he greets her with a small smile—it widens when she smiles back.

"Hello," she replies, before turning back to the window.

They talk more, now—only a bit, but it's a stark improvement from the awkward silences they used to suffer through. A polite greeting, a remark on the weather, a tidbit of gossip he picked up from Camilla or something amusing Gunther told her.

It's always very light though. Careful comments that don't delve too deep, prod too hard, nothing more than surface-level—

"You look bothered."

Marx jolts from where he'd been stacking the books on her desk, nearly upsetting the whole pile as he whips his head around to find she's looked away from the window again and is studying him closely—eyes the color of blood but still filled with such compassion and concern.

He brushes back a stray curl of hair, fighting to pull together a neutral expression.

"Bothered?" he repeats, lifting an eyebrow like the concept escapes him. "I fear I don't know what you mean."

She just fixes him with a flat look of disbelief—she _had_ to have somehow picked that up from Leon—but eventually seems to see something in his expression that makes her shrug and drop the issue. She swings off the stool to come inspect the books he brought her, softly chattering about what Gunther had told her earlier, and what she'd seen in the castle grounds from her window, and did he know that girl with lilac hair who rode _wyverns? —_

Marx listens to it all patiently, trying to get lost in her quiet, soothing conversation and not on Macbeth's eerie warning.

" _You think you're the only one who knows what's in the Northern Fortress?"_

Marx watches as she prattles on, seemingly uncaring of whether he's listening or not, brushing back snowy-white locks of hair as she flips through the books, eyes lighting up when she realizes their subject matter.

-0-

"You're going to be _seen,_ milord," Lazward tells him again.

"Hush, Lazward," Pieri chides, pouting at her partner as she adjusts herself in her saddle. "Lord Marx can do as he likes. Right, Lord Marx?"

Marx, for his part, just tugs idly at his riding gloves, declining to comment.

He's probably going to be seen.

"Just do as we planned," he instructs. "I will handle any…consequences."

Lazward rolls his eyes skyward and appears to mutter either a prayer or a curse while Pieri just scoffs and insists her spear will take care of any _consequences_.

But they fall silent without further complaint, and Marx is struck again by the loyalty of those two. He knows even if this little outing goes awry, it will be relatively easy to escape any serious punishment, and Lazward is just being wary and careful because _one_ of them has to be. But the prince hopes—hopes _dearly—_ that should he ever present a truly foolhardy and dangerous plan, Lazward will step in to tell him so.

He brushes those thoughts off as best he can, taking the reins and turning his horse around as a small light suddenly blooms to life in the Northern Fortress' highest window—a little flame nearly swallowed by the thick darkness of Nohr's nightfall.

"Off with you, then," he tells the pair, glancing back at his retainers. "I don't see how things can go _that_ badly, but if something does happen and you find yourselves in any kind of danger…" he trails off, lifting an eyebrow seriously. "…do what you must to see you make it back to me."

Both Lazward and Pieri nod at this—playfulness and teasing and lightheartedness dead in their faces for one somber moment—before Pieri is smiling brightly.

"Tell the princess I say hello!" she requests sweetly, and Lazward rolls his eyes with a snort.

"She has no idea who you _are,_ Pieri," he reminds her, turning his own horse around.

Pieri shoots him a dark look, her riding much more polished and practiced than Lazward's as she urges her steed into a smooth trot.

"She knows _exactly_ who I am. I'm sure Prince Marx has told her _all_ about me—"

"—not if he wants her to _sleep,_ he hasn't—"

" _Lazward!_ You're so _mean!"_

They take off into the night then, their familiar arguing carrying faintly through the air, and Marx smirks despite himself before prodding his horse back towards the Northern Fortress.

He nears one of the Fortress' ground entrances, and after a few moments, the door swings open to reveal Gunther and one small Hoshidan princess, wrapped up in his cloak.

Marx inclines his head. "Your Highness."

The girl has eyes only for the horse, and Marx dismounts smoothly as he gives Gunther a quick look to dismiss him. The old guard just smirks back before turning to leave the two alone, closing the door to the Fortress behind him.

"Her name is Bellona," Marx tells the girl, gathering the steed's reins up in his hand. She's staring up at the mare with a look of pure wonder, and the prince cracks a small smile at the sight. Stars dance off her wide eyes—constellations turned crimson.

Bellona, for her part, is very patient with children despite her breeding as a warhorse. She possesses a gentle disposition shown only to those Marx personally brings before her, and so she gazes down at the young girl calmly, flicking her tail every so often.

"You can pet her, if you'd like," Marx suggests, fingers briefly tightening on Bellona's harness as she tosses her head playfully. "She won't harm you."

Tentatively, as though she doesn't believe him, the girl stretches her hand out—fingers small and lily-white in the darkness—to rest it gently on Bellona's nose.

"Hello, Bellona," she whispers, her voice scratchy with disuse.

The horse snorts, and the girl retracts her hand quickly, eyes wide with fear, before laughing with delight—the sound high and tinkling, prompting another smile from Marx.

"I thought you might like a ride, princess," he explains, watching as the girl reaches up to stroke Bellona again with much more confidence. "Since you're always in the Northern Fortress, it might be nice to—"

The girl gasps and spins on him, pulling her hand away from Bellona so quickly the horse startles a bit, and Marx gently soothes her before looking down in bewilderment at the young girl suddenly gripping his riding cloak.

 _"Really?"_ she asks, eyes wide and hopeful, and Marx is glad he only promised her a horse ride because he would have moved heaven and earth to keep such a look of pure joy on the princess' face.

"Really," he answers, offering a half-smile back, and the girl suddenly seems to realize how close she'd gotten and quickly steps back, tucking her hands away, ducking his gaze.

"Erm, that—that would be very nice," she tells him, suddenly stiff.

Marx's genuine good humor melts into an ironic twinge of amusement. There's still much work to be done to gain the girl's trust—she hasn't even told him her _name_ yet.

Still, he retains his air of composure, and dutifully ignores the princess' sudden skittishness.

"May I help you up?" Marx asks, watching as she steals another glance at Bellona. She's clearly entranced by the creature—does Hoshido not have _horses?_ "It can be difficult to mount by yourself. Particularly someone your size."

She's seized by hesitation again—her whole body snaps taut like a sprung mousetrap—before she relaxes and nods her consent. Marx gingerly steps forward to gather her up in his arms, and then lifts her up to sit on the saddle. He watches as she settles in, idly reflecting how her astounding lightness reminds him of Elise, before swinging himself up behind her with practiced grace.

Bellona stomps a bit, feigning annoyance at carrying two riders, to which Marx tweaks her reins, knowing the warhorse is more than capable of handling whatever miniscule weight the young princess adds.

"Are you comfortable?" Marx asks, leaning to the side so he can watch as she adjusts herself in the nest his cloak has made around her. She wraps her hands around the saddle horn, giving a small nod, and they set off.

The ride begins in silence—Marx was never very good at small talk, and the girl is entranced by the Nohrian landscape. But as they continue on, he finds himself speaking softly—retelling old stories, sharing fond memories, teaching her some of his country's favorite tales and myths and legends. She soaks it all in silently, occasionally gasping or laughing at something he's said, but for the most part she seems…content.

He names the constellations for her, and she laughs as she corrects him, providing the Hoshidan names of the heavenly lights he'd grown up staring at—her native language rolls off her tongue like music as she seems to sing the secrets of the stars to him.

 _"Ryuu,"_ she tells him, and he follows her finger as she points to a smattering of stars. "The Dragon."

 _"Draco,"_ he murmurs, out of habit, and she throws him a teasingly annoyed look over her shoulder.

 _"I'm_ teaching _you_ now," she reminds him, trying to keep a stern look even as her lips twitch with the threat of a smile.

They continue to playfully argue—he sees the mighty archer Orion hunting among the stars, she sees a woman gracefully draping the sleeve of her kimono across the skies. He shows her the Seven North Stars, and she tells him the story of seven brothers who became those stars.

He's entranced by her lore—the way she whispers these centuries-old tales to him as they ride, almost like she's regaling the wind instead of him. Her culture is spilling out of her, and it makes her shine as brightly as the stars they're discussing.

The magic is broken when hooves are heard on the wind. Marx grits his teeth—if it's the border patrol, things are about to get rather ugly.

He reaches down with one hand to pull up the edges of his cloak and do his best to conceal the young girl as his dark eyes search the descending twilight, waiting for the rider to emerge.

His chest loosens at the sight of Lazward's familiar spotted steed, and the swordsman flashes him a reassuring smirk. Unwilling to be pacified, Marx leans around his retainer, alert for any sign that Lazward had been followed—

"Just me," Lazward says swiftly, drawing his own mount to a stop beside Bellona. He spies the young princess peering at him from within his lord's cloak and offers her a small smile. "Well hello there, your highness. It's very good to finally meet you."

Marx can feel the girl sink deeper into the fabric and closer to his chest—not fearful, but wary. Lazward takes the cue and looks back to the prince.

"The border guard isn't particularly pleased to have Nohrian riders out this late," he explains. "Pieri is distracting them now, but if you want to pull this off in secret, we'd best make for the stables."

Marx nods, stern mask back in place.

"Very well then." He prompts Bellona with a light kick, and together, the two men ride back to the stables. The return journey is swifter, and Marx's jaw is locked tightly. The girl has given up her hold on the saddle horn, and instead clutches his forearm with a vice-like grip.

"What happens if they find us?" she whispers to him, her voice almost lost on the wind.

Marx grits his teeth. Nohr's Crown Prince found having a casual evening ride with a Hoshidan Princess? He'd rather not entertain such thoughts.

"Nothing," he tells her stiffly, urging Bellona on faster, outdistancing Lazward. "Because they _won't_ find us."

The cold air whistles through his hair, stinging his face with its chill as Bellona all but gallops back to the stables. He's hardly pulled her to a stop before he's swinging off, lifting up a hand to offer the girl assistance. She eyes it, but then slides off the saddle herself. It's a bit of a drop, and Marx places a hand on her small shoulder to steady her before quickly working to get Bellona out of her tack, all the while listening for more hooves, hoping dearly this little excursion won't prove to be a mistake—

Lazward hurries in, leading his own horse just as Marx has stabled Bellona, and he watches as his retainer begins to unclasp the bridle.

"Goodbye Bellona," the girl says softly, stroking his horse's nose and drawing Marx's gaze. She looks to Marx, eyes wide. "Can I see her again?"

"Absolutely," Marx answers immediately, ignoring the look of exasperation Lazward sends his way. "Now, Princess, may I carry you back to the Fortress? It will be much faster that way."

She seems to hesitate, and Marx is prepared to recant the offer and lead the way back to the Fortress—he doesn't want to push her, doesn't want to encroach—when he hears the sound of hooves and nickering horses—

"Ah, Pieri!" Lazward suddenly calls, voice louder than necessary in the cold quiet of the evening. He shoots a quick look of warning at his lord before hastening outside, out of sight. Marx grits his teeth as he turns, seeing shadows of a handful of riders dancing against the large door of the stables. "Fancy seeing you here!"

Marx curses lowly. The border guard.

The princess' eyes are wide and panicked, and Marx hopes dearly that qualifies as permission as he swiftly wraps the girl up in her appropriated cloak, hauling her up in his arms and hustling her out the servant's entrance.

He ducks out of sight just as he hears the stable doors thrown open roughly, and Lazward and Pieri are loudly protesting whatever it is the guards are doing. His ears twitch at the sound of Bellona's fierce whinny and he can perfectly picture his treasured horse rearing back, towering over whoever has trespassed her space.

The girl in his arms shudders.

"Will she be okay?" she whispers to him, concerned.

"Yes, little princess," Marx murmurs back, slipping down another corridor. "Lazward and Pieri would never allow anything to happen to her. And besides, she is bred for war—she is perfectly capable."

Her pale face and bone-white hair seem to glow faintly in the darkness of the castle as Marx hurries through, stepping as lightly as he can, ears straining for any sound—

"Lord Marx?"

Marx curses, stopping short as he turns to find a guard approaching him, the man's head titled as he tries to see his features in the dim firelight. "Lord Marx, is that you?"

Marx makes a snap decision—flipping the excess cloak that hangs from the girl's form up and over her head to completely conceal her from sight. With the way he holds her and the darkness, he looks like he could be carrying anything.

"Yes, Ezra, it's me," Marx replies, subtly stepping back deeper into the shadows to further conceal the odd parcel in his arms.

The guard cocks his head. "Forgive me for saying so milord, but you're out rather late." He lifts his eyebrows questioningly. "Is everything—?"

"Fine," Marx blurts out. He shifts his weight, adjusting his grip. "Just out for a ride." He nods to the mass in his arms as though that explains anything and before the guard can comment, he inclines his head in farewell before striding off again.

The guard stares after him, left to puzzle over the bizarre behavior of Nohr's Royal Family as Marx hastens away.

He sets the girl down on the landing of the Northern Fortress, just outside her room so he can open the door without having to juggle her, and he catches a smirk on her face as she passes him.

He's barely closed the door behind him when she makes a dive for her bed, and by the time he's turned around she's buried herself in the blankets, eyes bright with laughter.

Marx laughs despite himself. "And what is it you find so amusing, little princess?"

Her eyes gleam garnet in the firelight. "You _lied,"_ she says, grinning craftily.

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly at the accusing lilt she gives her voice. "So I did," he agrees, crossing his arms at the foot of her bed and looking down at her with an amused smile. "Are you going to betray me?"

She giggles, seeming delighted as she pulls the covers up to try to smother her smile.

"What would I have to do in order to secure your silence, Princess?" he asks, playing along with a small smirk.

She bites her lip, and Marx tilts his head as a slight blush colors her cheeks—

"Could we—talk?" She blurts it out so inelegantly Marx almost laughs. The redness of her face has reached the tips of her pointed ears as she resolutely ducks his gaze. "I just mean—I could tell you more Hoshidan stories! If—" Her face falls slightly as her hands tighten on her bed sheets anxiously. "If you _wanted_ to, I mean."

Marx stares down at her, wondering if there is a way to express how there's nothing he wants to do more, and how he would do it all the time if he could.

_Things he's not thinking about._

"What would you like to talk about?" he asks politely. "You seemed quite taken with Bellona, perhaps I could tell you some stories about her?"

The girl nods. "We don't have horses in Hoshido," she explains softly. The bed creaks as he lowers himself onto the edge of it, dark cloak pooling around him, contrasting with the soft white of her sheets. "We have Pegasi, though."

Marx lifts an eyebrow. "Well, you handled yourself quite well then. Leon sees horses every day and he's still a bit frightened of them." Marx smiles fondly—Camilla has since taken over their brother's horsemanship, Nohr's eldest princess disliking the teaching of Garon's retainer, and Leon has subsequently flourished under her tutelage.

"Leon?" she asks, head tilted in curiosity, and Marx's stomach ices over.

"My brother," he tells her, words suddenly weighed. He's not sure why the prospect of telling her about his family knots him up as much as it does—hearing his brother's name in this stolen princess' lilting voice has him on edge.

Her eyes widen at this. "You have a brother?" she presses, mouth splitting in a smile that Marx hesitantly returns. "How old is he? What's he like? Wh—?"

Her jaw snaps shut, but Marx heard her unasked question: _why haven't I seen him?_

The Prince takes a moment to fiddle with his riding gloves—a nervous habit Camilla always scolds him for—as he watches it dawn on the young princess' face.

The Northern Fortress is her entire world, but only a fraction of Marx's.

He finds himself in a precarious place—like he'd almost forgotten the existence of his own family. The Northern Fortress always felt like it existed in a sort of limbo—on its own time in its own world. A mirrored dimension where everything was the same, but nothing existed expect for him and this little girl with ivory hair. No wars, no kingdoms, no murders or kidnappings—

Marx forces a hard swallow. He will have to be careful not to get so lost again—careful to keep his distance even as he tries to coax her closer.

It's a nonsensical paradox of conflicting feelings and duties that Marx resolves to put aside, only for tonight.

"He is about your age, little princess," he begins softly, eyes lowered to his hands. "He is the brightest of our family—a genius in his own right." A small smile lights his face. He adores his siblings, he truly does. "He is honest and generous, if a bit stiff. He's still trying to find his place."

Marx flicks his eyes up to find the princess watching him with rapt attention.

"You two would get along, I think," he remarks, more to himself. His eyes drift to the stack of books he'd brought her the other day—she's already finished with half. "He reads almost as much as you do."

"I see," she says diplomatically, and Marx gives her a hard look, trying to place her mood, before she just turns her head, facing away to look out her room's only window, the new angle hiding her face from him.

He waits for a moment, before tilting his head, trying to catch her eye. "Your Highness?" he tries. "Princess?"

"Do…do they know I'm here?"

Marx has never wanted a conversation to shift so dearly in his life—and he's discussed many unspeakable things.

"I—I don't want to put anyone at unnecessary risk," he explains. She's young—too _young_ —to understand this twisted kind of defensive paranoia, but he can see it in her sturdy expression. This Hoshidan Princess is no stranger to looking over her shoulder. He suspects she has his homeland to thank for that.

He forces himself to stand, fiddling mindlessly with the clasp of his cloak so he doesn't have to watch her expression fall the way it always seems to when he takes his leave.

"Goodnight, little princess," he tells her gently. "Sleep well."

She says nothing in return, and Marx holds in a sigh, hoping she can at least take some fond memories away from this night as he crosses the room towards the door—

"My name is Kamui."

Marx goes deathly still, breath tangling up in his lungs, heart suddenly hammering.

"Mother said it was a name that reflected the might and majesty of the gods." A quiet kind of pride warms her voice, and Marx feels it burn in his own chest.

_Kamui._

"A lovely name," he tells her, glancing back. She's holding two fistfuls of her sheets tightly, but seems to relax when he offers her a small smile. "Worthy of a Princess."

-0-

It was, regrettably, inevitable.

Nohr is a kingdom, kingdoms have castles, castles have guards. He couldn't _really_ expect to get away with it forever. Eventually someone was going to notice his absences, his curious fixation on the Northern Fortress, the books and meals and trinkets he always seems to have on hand, taking to some unknown destination.

He was—as Lazward warned him constantly—bound to get caught.

Which is how Marx finds himself moving swiftly through Castle Krakenberg late at night, trying to outdistance the guard who had caught a glimpse of him leaving the staircase that leads up to the Northern Fortress.

Garon has instructed his guards to be firmer, Marx is certain. He's stopped more often, questioned a bit more forcefully, his excuses less willingly accepted.

The prince grits his teeth, tightening his cloak with a sharp jerk. He can _feel_ the King's iron fist tightening on his home—on his _family—_ and it's maddening.

 _"He's changing, Marx,"_ Camilla had whispered to him just the other day, her lilac eyes narrowed in the darkness of the hallway like they're conspirers against the crown and not part of its legacy. _"He isn't the same man he once was!"_

 _"I know, Camilla, I_ _ **know."**_ How could Marx _not_ know? He is the eldest—his memories with Garon the clearest and happiest.

Camilla had eyed him darkly. _"We have to protect the others,"_ she'd told him lowly. _"Leon and Elise—they're too young, they don't understand."_

Marx had nodded in silent, grim agreement. _Kamui, too._ He'd thought, but hadn't said. He and Camilla had always been incredibly close—bonded by their love for their family and their hatred for anything that posed a threat to it—but he had not shared that secret quite yet.

 _"And Aqua,"_ he'd said, wincing at the way it sounded like an afterthought. _"She will suffer the worst. She's already suffered the most."_

He and Camilla had spoken further about Aqua after that, and Marx continues to play out the memory as he moves through the castle, thinking of his phantom sister. Absorbed in his thoughts, the Prince takes another turn in the darkness, when he comes across the very subject of preoccupation.

Ocher eyes—pools of liquid gold—gleam in the darkness as Aqua eases out of the shadows opposite him.

Their eyes catch and time melts—Marx's heart hangs suspended in his chest, eyes going wide as they gaze at each other for one whole heartbeat—and then he's hastening on, time surging back as he ducks behind another corner.

He feels stupid and childish—why should he be reduced to _hiding?_ He's the Crown Prince of _Nohr._ Such behavior is below him. He should gather his dignity, storm out there, and demand who the guard thinks he is to question—

_"You think you're the only one who knows what's in the Northern Fortress?"_

Macbeth's voice is like a low hiss in him memory—dark and cold—and Marx holds his spot, listening.

"Princess Aqua." The guard's voice _barely_ passes as respectful as he catches up, and Marx grits his teeth. "Did you see Prince Marx pass through here?"

Marx holds his breath because _of course_ Aqua saw him they made _direct eye-contact_ two _seconds_ ago and while he holds no ill-will towards the girl and gladly calls her _sister_ he doubts she has any interest in _lying on his behalf—_

"No." The voice of Nohr's second princess is as soft as the moonlight filtering in through the windows. "I did not."

Marx's heartbeat sounds deafening to his own ears.

The guard grumbles something, and Aqua murmurs back, "apologies, sir," with more poise than Marx thinks he's ever spoken with, and he listens as the guard shuffles off.

Marx waits a moment, swallowing hard in the suddenly eerie silence. He waits another moment…another…

Finally—like he's a boy of seven again and not a fifteen year-old well on his way to inheriting an entire kingdom—Marx leers around the corner to see what there is to see. It seems the guard has truly left, and with a sigh of relief, Marx pushes away from the wall.

Aqua is staring after the guard, but when he clears his throat, she turns to look at him. Her entire countenance is sheer marble—every bit as lovely as a sculpture, but with all the coldness of stone.

"That was…very kind of you, Aqua," Marx tells her quietly, shame burning high in his cheeks. He coughs awkwardly into his fist. "You should not have had to lie for me. I apologize."

"It's all right." Marx is struck by the odd melodic melancholy of her voice—beautiful and sad. She tilts her head up as she assess him, her long hair slipping off her shoulders and cascading down her back—the teal locks shimmering like water in the moonlight, as though the girl was of the sea itself.

They stand there, and Marx stares at this girl—his sister who he considers more cryptid than kin.

The awkward silence is stifling, and just as Aqua appears to turn away, he rushes out, "May I at least accompany you back to your room?"

She turns back—Marx finds her neutral expression somewhat unnerving. She's nearly impossible to read, especially when compared to the loud openness of his other siblings.

"I suppose," she allows, and turns to lead the way.

They walk in predictable silence. Marx has no idea what to say, and folds his arms stiffly behind his back, racking his brain for a topic of some sort.

"You're out quite late," he eventually remarks, immediately kicking himself because he is also, obviously, _out quite late,_ and she has just as much a right to prowl about the castle at odd hours of the night as he does.

He clears his throat, wondering why his words can never find a handhold on his tongue around this girl. He feels like he's speaking sheer glass, and if he raises his voice, or places the wrong inflection, it will all shatter in his mouth.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to imply—"

"No need for forgiveness." Her voice is light and sure as she walks on, never breaking her smooth stride. The sable cloak she'd donned for her excursion flutters out behind her like dark wings, contrasting starkly with her alabaster skin. She looks askance at him, and if it were anyone else, Marx would be temped to call her expression _wry._ "I find my actions questioned quite frequently. I'm rather used to it at this point."

Marx just nods somewhat unsteadily, unsure how to answer.

The silence creeps back, but only for a moment—to Marx's surprise, Aqua speaks up.

"If I may, Lord Marx—"

"Just Marx, Aqua," he corrects her quickly, frowning slightly at the formality. She glances up at him—a quick flash of neutrality. Marx wonders, idly, what it would take for her to show anger or sadness.

He then wonders if her tenure in Nohr has already drained her of such emotions.

"Marx, then." She seems to be tasting the name, and Marx honestly cannot say for certain if he remembers hearing her say it before. The thought drags up his shame again—is Aqua not his sister? Not by blood, of course, but it is not as though the parentage he shares with Camilla and Leon and Elise is something they _rejoice_ over—

"I know I am not in a place to give advice, particularly to you," she begins, drawing Marx out of his thoughts. His frown deepens— _particularly to him?_ Of all the siblings, barring perhaps Elise, he's the one who could use the _most_ advice.

"But," her careful steps continue, and Marx finds himself trying to match her silent stride. "May I at least suggest exercising caution?" She glances sideways at him, eyebrow arching up.

Marx's guard—lowered since she had lied for him—creeps back up.

"Aqua?" he tries to match her neutrality, but his words bleed with suspicion. He can't help it—he's hopelessly defensive where the Northern Tower is concerned.

His adopted sister continues. "Camilla knows for certain you are…" she seems to weigh her words, rolling a few across her tongue to find the most mild one _"…preoccupied_ with something. She's asked me a few times." A bit of forced laughter follows her sentence, and Marx watches as Aqua tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear with a softer, "as if _I_ would have been told anything."

Marx opens his mouth to argue—though how he's going to refute that statement, he's unsure—but Aqua's already continuing. "She's suspicious. Deeply so. I think she suspects you're plotting against the crown and feels slighted at being left out."

"Plotting against— _what?"_ Marx sputters magnificently, actually drawing up short to look down at Aqua in shock. "The _crown?_ Are you _mad?_ I would _never—!"_

"Leon suspects something as well," Aqua goes on smoothly, perfectly unbothered by his shock, and Marx hastens to catch up with her. "I don't believe his thoughts are as nefarious as Camilla's—he idolizes you, of course—but he notices how many absences you take, how your visits have grown slightly few and far between."

Marx pulls a face, wanting to defend himself—surely he hasn't been neglecting his siblings _that_ much. To a noticeable degree? _Leon notices everything,_ he reflects somewhat bitterly. It's the best and worst thing about Nohr's younger prince.

Aqua leads the way through the castle's grand ballroom—a shortcut Marx himself is very familiar with—her voice too soft to echo even in the cavernous room. "Elise is, of course, Elise. Sweet as ever, but I do think she notes your absence, though she shakes them off just as quickly."

Moonlight spills in from the high windows of the ballroom as they walk across it, sending their shadows dancing along the polished floor.

"You…" Marx almost doesn't know what to say. "You certainly keep an eye on everyone."

Aqua shrugs her thin shoulders delicately.

"There is not much more for me here than silent observation," she answers, and though her insinuation is sharp, her voice is soft. No malice, no anger—even where it's deserved.

Marx shifts uncomfortably. "Aqua, I'm sorry, I know I've never been—"

He breaks off as she holds up a thin hand, silencing him.

"No need for forgiveness," she says softly. "You protect your family, Marx. That is something to be proud of."

Marx grits his teeth. "You're family too, Aqua," he insists, opening the doors to the ballroom somewhat roughly as the two of them exit.

She laughs softly as they move towards her room, only a few halls down from the ballroom.

"You don't need to mind my feelings, Marx. I've never felt any ill-will towards you or the others." They reach her door, and she shrugs as she turns to face him, head tilted back, face painfully impartial.

"You do not represent all of Nohr, Marx. You are not responsible for what that has happened to me here." She gives him a fleeting smile and turns to open her door—

"Aqua—" he tries.

"Whatever it is, Marx, be careful." She gives him a look—that same cold, mournful gaze—and he realizes her eyes reminded him somehow of Kamui's. Eyes of gold and ruby that have seen far more than they appear.

Marx bows his head in understanding. "Of course, Aqua. Thank you for your concern, truly."

She regards him over her shoulder than, and her lips tilt in a soft, genuine smile that lights her eyes.

Then she slips inside, and closes her door, leaving Marx to stare woodenly at the place she'd stood.

-0-

"Are you writing something?"

Kamui's voice is bright and curious as she jumps neatly onto her bed, and Marx instinctually shoots out his hand to steady the inkwell precariously balanced on her mattress.

He glances over his shoulder to see the young girl sprawled out behind him across her bed—white hair fanned out around her, nearly camouflaged against the ivory of her sheets, her clothes fitting a bit better thanks to some simple stitch work, and her eyes glittering crimson like the rubies in Nohr's royal tapestry.

He cracks a smile that she returns brilliantly.

"I am, as it happens," Marx says, passing her the parchment that he knows she'll be asking for in a moment anyway. She is—by all accounts—relatively nosy, but he can't help but be endeared by her inquisitiveness. He finds himself rather unbothered by her peering over his shoulder, her always asking where he's been, what he's done, what he'll do when he leaves. Their nighttime ride was the better part of a month ago, and since then, she's shed her shyness little by little, revealing beneath it a quick wit, a desire to understand, and a capacity for concern and care that Marx doesn't quite know what to do with.

The bed dips again as she springs up, and Marx just twirls his quill as he awaits her verdict, tracking her across the room.

"Is this a speech?" Her crimson eyes rake over the page as she paces—barefoot, as always—in her room.

"A pass at one," Marx allows, smirking as her eyebrows furrow. "I admit, it is not exactly in my skill set."

Kamui scoffs at this, waving a pale hand dismissively. _"Everything's_ in your skill set," she tells him, tone smacking of an unsaid _obviously_ that she pairs with a flat look of _I may be ten but I'm not_ _ **stupid,**_ _Marx._

Marx smirks as she stares down her nose at him, eyebrows arched in a self-assured expression that makes him wonder if she's been meeting with Leon behind his back.

"On the contrary, little princess," he remarks, folding his arms and reclining back slightly on the bed. "I am _very_ afraid of people."

Crimson eyes flash to his, assessing his honesty.

"Liar," she declares, spinning away from him, nose in the air, and Marx laughs.

"Lie? _Me?"_ He puts a hand to his chest in mock affront. "You wound me, fair lady."

Kamui giggles at his antics as she continues pacing.

"It's true though." She's flipped over the paper, reading the rest of it as she continues the conversation. She truly has a voracious appetite for words—Marx hopes idly she and Leon can meet and let themselves loose in the library someday. "You're good at _everything."_

Marx rolls his eyes. "To be fair, Kamui, you have only seen me complete a small number of tasks, none of them very difficult."

She purses her lips, finally lowering the parchment to judge him from across the room.

"You're good at riding," she points out. "And you trained Bellona yourself."

Marx allows this, inclining his head in thought. "True, but you did not see the many, _many_ afternoons I spent getting _thrown_ from dear Bellona."

She ponders this, aimlessly circling the room.

"You're a skilled fighter," she offers. "I hear you practice outside almost every night, and Gunther gushes about you every chance he gets."

Marx huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. "Gunther taught me—he's biased."

She bites her lip, contemplating, and Marx decides to make things easier for her.

"I was born with no exceptional talents, Kamui, trust me." He chuckles darkly, shifting his gaze to look out the room's only window. "I am reminded of that fact often."

Kamui frowns, eyes darting to his sharply. She almost looks like she's about to comment before she wisely changes topics.

"Well, Joker says you're magnificent." She juts her chin up, eyeing him imperiously like she's daring him to argue. "And I find I agree. His opinion is almost always correct."

"Taken a liking to Joker, have you?" Marx asks casually, trying to mask his genuine interest as he thinks on the new butler that had been brought on. In an effort to ease the suspicions Aqua had pointed out to him, he'd decided to spend less time in the Northern Fortress, but he'd refused to let Kamui alone. Gunther had suggested bringing on Joker, and though Marx had been very hesitant, Kamui had brightly accepted the company.

So with some reluctance and no small amount of threatening to keep quiet about the whole thing, Marx allowed the young butler to take tea and chat with Kamui on days when he was otherwise occupied—though the two were always joined by either Pieri or Lazward or Gunther.

Kamui shrugs, completely unbothered by the prince's curiosity. "I guess so. I just feel sorry for him, really."

 _This_ catches Marx's attention, and he snaps his gaze back where it had been wandering towards the window.

 _"Sorry_ for him?" he asks, frowning hard at the statement. "What for?"

Kamui glances up—eyebrows raised at his somewhat harsh tone—and Marx tries to regain his composure.

"Just—I'm only curious," he explains hastily, trying and failing to realize the absurdity that is the heir to the Nohrian throne explaining himself to a pale slip of a Hoshidan royal. "Joker and his family have been very well-received. I see no cause for concern or sympathy."

Kamui eyes him a bit longer—that look that's like she's seen everything. Ancient eyes that have been to the end of the world and back before settling in to serve a tiny lost princess. Eyes that have seen a thousand tragedies, and know they're doomed to see a thousand more.

"People don't trust him because he's new," Kamui offers up, glancing down at his speech again. The pale-haired girl rolls the parchment idly between her fingers, still ducking his gaze. "I…I can relate to that, I suppose."

_Ah._

"I trust you," Marx blurts out, almost unintentionally. Because, well, it's the truth, and he feels compelled to remind her of that fact.

Her gaze flickers up—red as a bloodstone—and her lips quirk in a twisted smirk of wry amusement.

"Trust me enough to let me go riding on my own horse?" she asks, and Marx frowns.

 _"That_ is not playing fair," he tells her, sweeping to stand and allowing their height difference to express his displeasure. He avoids looming over her if he can help it, but will sometimes take a stand if she's being particularly ornery. "And it's not a lack of trust in _you_ that keeps you here."

Kamui just stares at him for a moment before dropping her gaze back to the parchment in her hands.

"It's a lovely speech," she offers quietly, and Marx sighs at the shift in her voice.

"Kamui—"

"No, please," she turns to face him, words spilling out. "I don't want to seem ungrateful, Marx, truly, I just—"

"Ungrateful?" Marx throws his arms wide. "Kamui, you have every right and reason to be _ungrateful_ —to be more than that!" She drops her gaze, shrinking back from him slightly, and Marx sighs, dropping his arms.

"I'm so sorry," he says quietly. "About all of this, Kamui. I'm just so _sorry—"_

He breaks off with surprise as a small weight suddenly slams into him, and Kamui has buried her head in his chest as she hugs him fiercely around the waist.

Marx hesitates for only a moment before slowly lowering his hands to return the hug, drawing her up tighter to him.

They stand that way for a moment longer, before Marx hears her whisper into his shirt: _"I still want to go on another ride, though,"_ and he laughs softly into her hair.

-0-

"…and of course, there's Elise's birthday—"

Camilla breaks off as Marx suddenly snaps his gaze up to hers, arching a lilac eyebrow when he says nothing.

"…did you _forget?"_ she asks, though doubt coats her words. Marx is ever-dutiful in remembering every little detail about his siblings—he'd never miss something so important as a _birthday._

Hesitation seizes him, and Camilla's eyebrow climbs higher.

"That's unlike you, Marx." There's a knowing lilt to his sister's voice that Marx decidedly ignores.

He shoots her an annoyed look as he begins to walk further up the hall—outdistancing her as he changes his destination.

"I did not _forget,"_ he calls over his shoulder—because he _didn't_. Not _Elise's_ birthday, anyway.

His feet have long-since memorized the climb up to the Northern Tower—always skipping the twenty-third step, as that is the one he's sure will give way any day now and he doesn't spare many thoughts for death but falling from a ruined staircase is a particularly humiliating way to go, all things considered—to burst into Kamui's room without so much as a _knock—_

Kamui looks up in alarm as Marx all but throws the door to her room open. She'd been sitting by the window reading, but his abrupt and undignified appearance has her out of her seat at once, hurrying over to him.

"Marx?" she looks him up and down, crimson gaze searching for a wound. "Marx, what is it?"

"Your birthday," he rushes out. "Surely it must have passed by now."

Confusion clings to her features for a moment longer before slowly softening to a kind of sad understanding. She clasps her hands before herself, offering him a small smile.

"Marx, I hardly think—"

"When _was_ it, Kamui? And why did you say nothing?" Marx glares down at her, not angry at _her_ but rather angry at this perceived lack of trust. Lack of…familiarity. He'd earned the privilege of her name, how much more need he do to earn the privilege of her name day?

_Things he's not thinking about._

"I forgot." There is no denying the honesty in Kamui's words, painful as it is. She rubs her arm absently, ducking his gaze. "Joker mentioned the date the other day and…well I…I hadn't realized…"

She trails off, and Marx just sighs. "At least let me get you a gift, Kamui," he says, a tired kind of affection in his voice. She looks up in surprise.

"What?" she asks, rather inelegantly.

He frowns at her confusion. "You deserve a gift, Kamui. I _want_ to give you a gift." He crosses his arms, setting his jaw as she seems to mull it over. "Do not pretend you want for nothing. Just name it, Kamui, anything."

She hesitates, and Marx knows he's in trouble.

 _"Anything?"_ There's a lilt to her voice that makes Marx arch an eyebrow.

"Do not ask for something you know I can't give you, Kamui," he tells her, frowning hard. "You will only disappoint both of us."

She's ducking his gaze again. He hates when she does that.

"Kamui…?" he prompts gently.

A beat of silence. Marx cannot imagine her request can be _that_ unreasonable—

"What if I wanted to learn swordplay?" she asks quietly.

Marx freezes.

"Swordplay?" The word falls from his lips like it's foreign—like he himself is not a dedicated student of the art.

Kamui shrugs, still hiding her eyes. "I don't know," she murmurs, flushing darkly under his questioning gaze. "It…it could be useful."

Marx does not doubt that, necessarily—he's of the opinion that all young ladies of court should know a thing or three about defending themselves, particularly from unwanted advances. His own mother—the late, great Queen Katerina—had been a brilliant sword master; he'd inherited Siegfried from _her._ It is not as though he thinks swordplay an inappropriate skill for Kamui…it's just…

He swallows. Kamui is still studying the floor intently.

"My brother—Ryoma—" Marx tries not to flinch at the sound of his rival's name. "—he is—swordplay is— _Hoshido—"_ She's tripping over her words now, hopelessly trying to weave together an excuse. Marx's heart aches at the sight.

"I," he begins, with absolutely no idea of what he is going to say. Kamui looks up at him sharply, a small spark of hope in her eyes, and his mind is made up.

"I…will speak to Gunther about getting a sword crafted for you."

Her mouth falls open in shock, and Marx scoffs good-naturedly. As if he could refuse her anything.

"Truly?" she asks, eyes going wide as she surges forward to grab in arm with both her hands, staring up at him. "Really Marx? You'll do that?"

His lips twitch with a smile. Her delight is catching.

"I will, though _he_ will be the one teaching you, and I will warn you but once—Gunther is as strict a teacher as they come." He arches an eyebrow. "I hope this is not a whim."

"It's not," Kamui assures him, and of course he believes her. She is young still, yes—five, no, _four_ years his junior—but her resolve is hard as marble.

Marx watches, slipping out of the moment as Kamui launches into the story of how she'd come to want to learn swordplay—her good humor restored—thinking of his mother.

Wishing—not for the first time—that she were here, now.

He imagines Queen Katerina here, in the room in the Northern Fortress, but the thought slips away, because of course, Mother would never allow Kamui to be kept like some secret in a drafty old tower, she would be—

Marx blinks twice. Kamui would be nowhere, because Kamui would not have been taken— _never._ His mother would have raised all seven Hells before she let such a scheme fall through. He would never have met Kamui—even with his mother's keen mind for diplomacy, and his father's earlier, brighter disposition, peace with Hoshido would take years to brook. He could have _never—_

"Marx?" Kamui pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks down in alarm to see she's drifted closer to him, lightly concerned. He wonders what his expression looks like, then decides he would rather not know. "Marx, are you well?"

He lets a hand fall to his side where it lands on Siegfried's hilt.

"I am fine, little princess," he answers, voice subdued. "Do not mind me."

-0-

"You let them _take her?"_

Marx's voice echoes terribly beneath the cavernous ceiling of the throne room, chest heaving as he glares up at the great seat's occupant, violet eyes alight with hate and pain and fury—fiery sparks from a struck flint rock.

King Garon just gazes back at his son, and Marx grits his teeth at the sight of those sunken, soulless rocks that have replaced what were once onyx-bright eyes—intelligent and warm. This man is _not_ his father.

"Sacrifice is part of rule, Marx," Garon rumbles back, and Marx's blood _boils—_

"You do not _barter_ with _people,"_ he rages back. The entire court is silent, his father flanked by a myriad of retainers who all stare down at him—imperious and cold. "That's the most monstrous thing I've ever—"

 _"Silence."_ Garon's voice cuts through his son's like steel through flesh. Marx swallows his words, years of punishment cowing him into obedience. Garon assess him from his place atop the throne, lip curled in a dissatisfied sneer. "You know _nothing_ of kingship."

His words tear at Marx's insecurities and rip his fledgling confidence to shreds. The Prince rails against the pain—hides the hurt with fire.

"Aqua is my _sister!"_ Marx yells, teeth bared before the throne. "A Princess of Nohr! You have no _right—!"_ He lurches forward a few steps, propelled by his anger, and one of the retainers drops a hand to the hilt of his blade.

Garon watches his son unravel without a glimmer of interest. There is no shortage of an audience present—the throne room is full not just with his father's servants but palace guards, courtiers, his siblings—all summoned to learn of Garon's latest scheme.

"I had hoped you would grow out of this," the King remarks coldly, and Marx prepares to shout back—

Something tugs on the edge of his cloak, and Marx looks down, bewildered.

"We can get her back, right Brother?"

Marx can hardly bear to make himself look at Elise—sweet Elise, who knows nothing of the world's coldness, only the warmth of her siblings—but he marshals his resolve and glances down to meet her wide eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.

She reaches out to grab hold of his trousers, holding them tightly in her fist as she pleads. "We can bring her back! We can—you and Camilla can go to Hoshido, you can _ask_ —you can fight their Prince, Marx, you're—Gunther says you're the best swordfighter he's ever seen! We can't just—they can't just _take her,_ Marx, we have to _help_ her!"

She dissolves into tears then, and Marx leans down to scoop up the young princess and hold her close as she breaks into sobs.

 _"Shhh,"_ Marx murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head as she cries nosily into his shoulder. "Hush now, Elise."

He turns his back on Garon—on this heartless, compassionless King—and tries to soothe a wailing Elise, mind spinning—

_Gone. Aqua is_ _**gone.** _ _Taken from her home, from her family. How could he let this happen—?_

"Milord." Lazward is at his side then, a low note of urgency in his voice. "I know you're upset, but we are not among friends here."

Marx's gaze sweeps the assembly of his father's knights and advisors and retainers. They are all listening to whatever Garon is saying, save for Macbeth, who stares the young prince down with a smirk on his lips.

_"You think you're the only one who knows what's in the Northern Fortress?"_

Across the room, Camilla appears with Leon at her side. His sister's face is drawn and weary, and his brother's fists are clenched tightly at his sides as he stares woodenly into the distance.

Marx catches Camilla's eye, and Nohr's gem can only shrug helplessly.

 _What can we do?_ she mouths to him, lovely features twisted with pain.

She's right—gods help him, when isn't she—and Marx feels his temper snarl and snap within him once more. What can they do? March on Hoshido to reclaim a princess this country never deserved anyway? A sister this family never deserved? Marx thinks on how Aqua was treated and curses silently. Who's to say she'd even _want_ to return?

 _She is a Nohrian Princess,_ his subconscious hisses, and Marx holds his sister tighter as the ugly truth sinks its claws into his chest. _Her rightful place is_ _ **here.**_ _You are choosing Kamui over Aqua._

"Marx?" Elise asks, voice thick with tears as she feels her brother tense beneath her.

_You're no better than Garon._

He catches Camilla's gaze where his sister is still talking lowly to Leon, and she must see something in his face that makes her understand. She murmurs one last thing to the younger prince before calling over one of her retainers with a curl of her fingers.

A garnet-haired girl emerges from the shadows—Marx hadn't even noticed her—and he watches as she approaches her lady, flicking a nasty look at the gathered King's men. She's hardly older than Lazward, but stares them down with a fierceness that gives even Marx pause.

Camilla's retainer indeed.

At Camilla's instruction, the girl—Luna, he recalls—places a guiding hand on Leon's shoulder, her expression softening as she entreats the prince to follow her. He does so stiffly, still looking so horribly _lost_ that Marx's heart constricts at the sight. Aqua and Leon had not been terribly close, but he'd come across them together in the courtyard a handful of times—Aqua humming some melody while Leon silently read.

Even Marx admits he hadn't made time for Aqua like he knows he should have. He boasts endless devotion to his family, but the only thing he can think of when he thinks of loyalty is a white-haired girl in a tower.

"Come now, sweetling," Camilla murmurs, gently taking Elise from Marx's arms and settling the youngest princess neatly against her hip, brushing pale blonde locks out of her eyes. As they leave, Marx can just hear Camilla whisper, "Chin up, my love. Dry those eyes. Don't let them see."

Marx just stands there woodenly—acutely feeling the loss of his siblings.

Aqua deserved better—Nohr was never worthy of her. _He_ was not worthy to call her _sister._

But things can change. The Prince curls his hands into fists. Things _will_ change.

"Lord Marx." Lazward is begging now, tugging on his sleeve. "Milord, please. There's nothing to be done."

"Someday I will lead Nohr to peace." Marx's voice is so low and deadly he hardly recognizes it as his own. "I will call a truce with Hoshido, I will rebuild what you have ruined, mend the lives you've destroyed in your carelessness—Nohr will return to glory, and you will _never_ live to see it."

Garon sits up on his throne, lifting a severe eyebrow, but Marx cannot stop the words spilling out of him now.

"You tossed away the life of a Nohrian Princess like it was _nothing,"_ he says coldly. "As if _your_ life is worth anything—as if you and your lies and schemes could ever come _close_ to Aqua's goodness—"

There's a sudden hiss as a sword clears its leather sheath, but Marx is too caught up in his anger to hear it. There's a flash as the blade's edge catches the light and it's _swinging—_

Lazward sees it first. Lazward, who is a year his charge's junior but has lived through two wars and enough ruin to last him several lifetimes. Lazward, who sees the sword flash in the firelight of the throne room and suddenly is not Lazward at all, but Azur, a swordsman who serves not a Nohrian Prince but a Ylissian Exalt, and he lurches forward to intercept the blade before it can reach Lucina, whose back is turned fighting off three Risen at once—

Steel meets steel in a metallic screech that jars Lazward back to the present, teeth bared as he catches the man's strike with the flat of his blade before roughly shoving him off, slashing out to push him back further away from Luci— _Marx._

Lazward weighs the sword in his hand, bronze eyes alight with the promise of a fight and the purpose to protect. His face splits in a look that is equal parts smirk and snarl as he moves back, stepping closer to Marx, one arm sweeping out protectively before his lord.

"See," he remarks, a cruel cockiness drowning out the calm cadence of his speech. "If _I_ were about to do something incredibly reckless and stupid, like, say, purely by example— _attack the Crown Prince_ —I'd make _damn_ fucking sure I was decent with a sword." He stares the other man down, lips twitching with amusement and ferocity.

"But then I'm not you, am I?"

The man lunges, but Lazward's already ducking his swing, moving in to catch the man's strike on his hilt and give it a sharp and painful twist, prying the other man's weapon from his hands. It goes clattering away, and Lazward holds the blade to his neck, quirking an eyebrow.

"Anything else you'd like to try?" he asks unkindly. "Maybe take a swing at Lady Camilla? I'd _love_ to watch Luna rip you—"

"Enough."

Garon's voice booms through the throne room, and everything goes still in its wake.

The King stares Lazward down, and Lazward stares back.

He's looked into the eyes of the Fell Dragon. He doesn't shrink from much, anymore.

"Release him, Lazward," Marx murmurs from his retainer's side.

With one last fierce look, Lazward does so, stepping back beside his lord and sheathing his sword with a shriek of metal.

Garon just gazes down at them from atop his throne, and Lazward glances at Marx, watching his liege struggle to hold his father's eyes.

Lazward thinks of his own father. His death was cruel and unjust, but at least it was quick and relatively painless. This deterioration of King Garon—Lazward couldn't imagine watching someone he loved suffer in such a way.

Suddenly, Marx is turning away from the throne, striding across the carpeted floor to the door. With one last dark look at the man who'd thought it wise to attack his charge, Lazward follows.

They exit, and Lazward watches Marx carefully, disliking the dark look of anger that shadows his face. His lord will not look at him, and Lazward struggles with something to say—

"Lazward."

The retainer blinks at the call, glancing up to see Marx staring at the wall opposite them with a face of quiet intensity.

"Milord?" he asks tentatively.

"Thank you." Marx's voice burns with sincerity.

Lazward just nods. "Of course. Anytime, Lord Marx—every time." He offers a small smile that Marx does not return as the two move away from the doors to the throne room.

"Lazward, bring Kamui her meal tonight," Marx mutters, rubbing his temples. He feels like a dead man walking—a million miles away and nowhere at all. "I need to be alone."

His retainer nods in understanding, briefly reaches out to touch his elbow—to anchor him, if only for a moment—before turning to leave.

-0-

Marx is walking to Kamui's tower—arms full with books—when he's roughly accosted in a narrow hallway.

He jerks away from the stranger's touch on instinct, dropping the books as he whirls around, grasping for a sword that isn't there as his narrowed gaze falls upon a pair of lilac eyes.

He exhales sharply, trying to relax as he pushes hair out of his eyes. _"Gods_ Camilla, what in the _world—"_

"So it's true then." The Princess' voice is cold and sharp, brow arched accusingly. Marx frowns, immediately on edge.

"Camilla, if you have a problem, this is hardly the way to go about—"

Camilla moves closer, backing him up against the wall, the hallway too narrow to give Marx any space as his sister crowds him with a fearsome face. He's two years her senior, but her boldness dwarfs his. "Who is she, Marx? That girl in the Northern Fortress?"

Marx's stomach plummets, eyes narrowing sharply.

"Step away from me, Camilla." His voice is low and curt.

Her eyes flash with a challenge, a threat. Nohr's Princess flourishes in confrontation—handles words with the same grace and ruthlessness of her axe, where Marx thinks too hard for too long.

He's outmatched. She slams her fist into his chest, eyes glinting like raw hunks of amethyst.

"You _lied!_ You've been lying this whole time!"

"Camilla—"

"I _knew_ you were hiding something from me!"

"Camilla, keep your voice _down—!"_

"Is she another one of Father's? You don't have to _protect_ me from that, Marx, I'm not a _child,_ I can handle—"

Marx seizes his sister's wrist, and she breaks off with a gasp as he pulls her deeper down the long corridor, out of sight from any passing guards, books forgotten on the floor.

She stares up at him in the shadows, violet gaze intrigued but—as always with Camilla—deeply suspicious.

Gunther always remarked how she'd be the fiercest of the Norhian brood when the time came—the bastard daughter of a coldhearted king with disarming charm and a pocketful of poison. A wintertime siren, devastating in her beauty and brutality.

In Marx's own opinion, she's the fiercest of them now.

"She is not our sister," Marx tells her lowly, voice low with a deadly dark edge so sharp Camilla leans out of his space, wary. "I am telling you the truth because it is your right to know, and I trust you. But if anyone ever asks, for any reason—she is our blood."

The princess' eyes flash in the near-dark. Dishonesty. The Royal Family's specialty.

"Who is she then?" Camilla asks softly, some of the heat gone from her words as Marx releases her wrist. "If not one of our own."

Marx works his jaw, weighing his options. He trusts Camilla with his life—trusts her more than he will ever trust himself—but involving her in this ruse means bringing her down with him should this spiral out of control. Shackling Nohr's brightest jewel to himself when Father brings down the axe as retribution for his meddling.

He gazes down at her. "Does it matter?" he counters softly.

Camilla quirks an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his maneuver.

"You might best me in swordplay, Brother," she tells him lowly. "But don't think yourself capable of matching me in a battle of wits. Speak clearly."

Marx exhales sharply through gritted teeth, glancing around before beckoning Camilla deeper down the corridor, pulling her into a spare sitting room.

Camilla ignores the chairs, standing a few feet away with crossed arms and an expectant expression.

"We have _discussed_ this, Marx," she tells him sharply, watching as he closes the door securely behind himself. "You are not the sole sword and shield of this family. I want to protect Leon and Elise just as much as you do!" Her lip curls, just a little—masking her hurt with venom, where Marx hides his with fury.

"And I can do it just as well, too."

She's right, of course _._ Camilla is _fiercely_ devoted to the Norhian Royal Family.

Marx takes a breath, steadying himself.

"She has no relation to you, or me, or Father, or anyone else in this castle," he begins lowly.

Camilla's eyes narrow. "So, what? She's a common girl Father took in due to his overwhelming sense of _charity?"_

"She is a Hoshidan Princess," Marx tells her softly. "Their second daughter, and third eldest. Her name is Kamui."

Camilla's eyes go wide, violet irises catching the light of the stained glass and making color dance in them like a kaleidoscope.

" _Impossible."_ The word is the faintest exhale, on the heels of a startled gasp as her eyes flip wide in shock. "Marx, that's impossible, Father would _never—"_

"Wouldn't he?" Marx bites back. "He's committed far greater atrocities against his own _kin—"_

Camilla bares her teeth at the interruption.

"Father is cruel, Marx, not stupid," she hisses. "And Hoshido is not _kin."_

The statement brings Marx up short. _Kamui is not your kin,_ his subconscious reminds him with a hiss. _She's an outsider. An enemy._

"That's why they took Aqua," Camilla realizes. Marx's gaze flickers up to find his sister standing stock-still, stiff with the sudden insight. "They were trying to get her back…"

"They didn't realize Aqua meant nothing to him," Marx murmurs. "They called for an exchange, and Father refused. He hardly tried to stop them from taking her."

A fearsome string of curses falls from the princess' locked jaw, and Marx just watches her with nothing to say.

"That _bastard—"_ A young voice full of old anger.

"Stop," Marx orders lowly. "His court would love nothing more than to hang you for treason and you know it."

She glares at him, lips pulling back in a snarl.

"Let them _try."_

" _Camilla."_ Her name is a rebuke. "Enough. You are no good to anyone dead or jailed.

An uneasy silence settles between the siblings.

"Can I meet her, at least?" Camilla eventually asks, none-too-kindly. "If our dear Crown Prince is risking all of our necks for some little girl, I'd like to know what she looks like."

Marx flings her a dark look. "That _risk_ is exactly why I was trying to keep this a _secret—"_

Camilla rolls her eyes, turning to lead the way out of the library. "Try harder next time."

They make their way towards the Northern Tower after Marx stops to collect the books he'd dropped earlier, and he makes sure to pull Camilla off-course of the faulty stair as they ascend.

Camilla shoots him a sideways glance as they stand at the door.

"You seem apprehensive, Brother," she notes, because Marx has many skills but _lying to Camilla_ is most definitely not one of them.

He stares rigidly at the door, declining to ponder _why_ he feels so apprehensive. Why does the idea of Kamui meeting his family fill him with such anxiety? Is he worried Camilla won't like Kamui? Is he worried _Kamui_ won't like _Camilla?_ Is he—?

_Things he's not thinking about._

Marx knocks twice and pushes open the door, sable cloak snapping behind him as he deftly steps in front of Camilla, gesturing for her to stay as Kamui moves towards him, smiling a greeting.

"There is someone who would like to meet you," Marx explains, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he deposits the books on Kamui's desk.

The young girl frowns, ears twitching at his displeased tone. She's an old hand at seeing through his pretenses.

"Oh," she says, still trying to place his exact tone. Her oxblood eyes trace his expression, narrowing when she can't quite catch the root of his discomposure. Marx doesn't blame her—he couldn't explain his feelings if he were asked at a sword's end.

Camilla watches the pair of them eye each other questionably before deciding to make her grand entrance, and Nohr's jewel sweeps into the Northern Tower's small room with all the grace and elegance of a Queen.

Then her eyes meet Kamui's and all her elevated seriousness melts away as she gasps with delight.

Marx rolls his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.

"She's _darling!"_ Camilla gushes, and Marx instinctually shifts between the two, with Kamui peaking out around him curiously.

"Don't overwhelm her, Camilla," he cautions. "She is a bit shy."

Camilla waves his concern off, and he doesn't truly blame her—Nohr's eldest princess is incredibly gifted when it comes to dealing with children. They adore her, and she adores them. It's charming to watch, actually, but Marx stands aside with reluctance this time, stationing himself at Kamui's side.

"Hello, Kamui!" Camilla greets her brightly, crouching down to level herself with the younger girl, who curls her fingers into Marx's cloak—more apprehensive than frightened, as far as he can tell.

Her lips tilt in an uneasy smile. "Hello," she replies politely, and Camilla _beams._

"This is Camilla," Marx explains, waving an introductory hand. "The elder of my two sisters. Her skills include axe-fighting, wyvern riding, and being a _thorn_ in my side."

Kamui's eyes widen while Camilla's expression sours. _"Wyverns?"_ she asks, awe in her voice.

Camilla nods excitedly. "Yes! Have you seen them? You must have!" Her eyes flash to Kamui's window and then back. "You have the _perfect_ view. Do you like wyverns?"

"I," Kamui hesitates slightly at all the attention, but her smile grows. "I've never seen one up close."

" _Well,_ we'll have to fix that right away," Camilla remarks brightly. "I'm sure Marx wasted _no_ time in showing off _Bellona."_ The light tease holds no heat, but Marx rolls his eyes all the same as Camilla clasps Kamui's hands in hers, holding them tightly, chattering away about so many topics Marx honestly loses track. Kamui gradually begins to loosen up, and he smiles softly as her typical loud and cheerful personality comes out under Camilla's encouragement.

He hovers awkwardly off to the side, listening to them talk and laugh and joke like old friends for a moment before he decides he could better spend his time elsewhere—much as he'd cheerfully loiter in the corner for the next five hours—and he moves towards the door.

"Are you leaving?"

Marx looks up to find Kamui leaning around Camilla to watch him, forehead creased with concern. He blinks. He had not realized she'd been paying attention.

"I, um," he struggles to articulate a sentence under her sudden distress.

Camilla's face splits on a brilliant, sly smile, and she puts a hand on Kamui's cheek, gingerly pulling the girl's gaze back to her.

"Now, sweetling, I'm sure Marx has some very important business to attend to," she explains, and Marx frowns on instinct at the suggestive lilt to her voice ad she leans towards the young girl with a conspiring grin.

"But I have _plenty_ of embarrassing stories from dear Marx's childhood to share."

Kamui blinks twice at this, surprised but—as a smile lights her face—clearly delighted by the prospect.

"Camilla." Marx's voice is flat with annoyance, but Kamui's eyes are already bright with excitement.

Camilla just looks over her shoulder to toss her brother a playful wink that he answers with a roll of his eyes as he exits the room.

Nohr's oldest princess won't embarrass him too thoroughly. Not if she knows what's good for her. He wasn't the only one who was once young and embarrassing.

-0-

Marx is summoned to his brother's chambers, and finds him covered in blood.

"It's not mine," the youngest prince blurts out, as Marx takes in the sight with wide eyes. Leon is seated on his bed, dressed in sleeping clothes that are smattered with a faint ruddy color—poorly cleaned bloodstains.

Marx crosses the room in a few long strides, kneeling before his brother as he analyzes every aspect of his being in a dark silence, cataloguing the splash of blood across his cheek and neck, and the ghostly pallor that clings to his skin, paler than his usual fair complexion. His hands—thin and knobby and resting uneasily on his knees—are shaking slightly.

"Marx, please, I didn't—"

"Are you unhurt?" Marx murmurs, sweeping stray strands of his brother's white-blond hair out of his eyes. In a few years, Leon's locks will darken to match his own—a kind of tarnished gold, much like the crown he will someday wear. He casts his gaze around for some sort of cloth, and finds a spare shirt lying within reach that he grabs to begin cleaning the blood off Leon's face.

Leon swallows hard. "I'm fine." His voice trembles horribly, and Marx's jaw tightens. There is so much danger in pretend braveness—in forced bravado. A prince has just as much right to be afraid as the next man.

"What happened?" Marx asks, fighting to keep his tone steady and calm. His protective instincts are clawing at his insides, but he holds fast. He will be no help to Leon if he loses his head.

Leon swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

"It wasn't my fault," he chokes out.

Marx hushes him quietly. "I know," the Crown Prince assures him, brushing more hair back out of his brother's eyes. "Leon, please, you aren't in any trouble. I just need to know—"

The story comes tumbling out of his brother's mouth.

"There was a woman, Marx, an assassin! I was just going to the library and I took the long way around because I don't like explaining myself to Father's guards, and then there was a scream from the Northern Fortress—"

Marx's heart—already aching at the sight of Leon's distress—stutters horrifically in his chest, prompting a sharp intake of breath that Leon misses as words keep spilling out of him—

"So I went to go look and when I got to that top room in the tower that no one ever goes to I saw the door was open so I went inside and I _know_ it was stupid but I was worried it was Elise or Felecia or Flora and then there was a woman with a _knife_ standing over this girl I've never seen and the girl was crying and the woman had her by the _throat_ and—"

Marx's breath gets caught in his chest—tangles up in his ribs and leaves him choked.

"She was going to _kill_ her," Leon insists. "You have to believe me, Marx!"

"I do," Marx murmurs back. He would take Leon's word over anyone's—the Dark Mage's fierce pride does not allow for dishonesty. And besides that—he's family. His only brother. Who could he trust if not his own blood?

His thoughts circle back to Kamui.

"You killed her?" Marx asks, working to keep the tension out of his voice. No punishment would befall him if he had—a dead assassin can hardly claim foul, especially against a member of the Royal Family—but _killing_ carries punishment all its own, especially for someone so young.

But—to Marx's intense relief—his brother shakes his head.

"Zero did."

_Zero._

Marx eyes the white-haired retainer who loiters in the corner like a shadow lacking source. He arches a single eyebrow over his good eye when the prince catches his gaze.

"Zero?" Marx verifies. He vaguely recalls the outlaw's origins at Castle Kakenburg—a petty thief who was left for dead by his so-called friends. Marx had assumed he'd be executed, but Garon had seen his worth and brought him on as a guard instead.

Marx's lips quirk. It seems it paid off.

"Something you wanted, milord?" Zero asks, voice so dark it sounds as though it wandered through the Woods of the Forlorn. His single eye gleams in the gloom of Leon's room—always searching for a new target.

The Crown Prince just shakes his head.

"Look after my brother," Marx tells him. "That is—and always will be—my only request."

Zero just smirks, tapping two dark fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, and Marx nods back before glancing to his brother.

"And the girl?" Marx asks, trying to temper his tone. Leon is strained enough as it is. "What happened to the girl in the Northern Fortress, Leon?"

Leon swallows hard. "Odin has her," he explains, voice still scratchy and soft. "I—I don't know who she is, Marx, she's got white hair and—and _red eyes—"_

Marx hushes him quietly, making to stand. "I will tell you when you're well, Leon. For now just rest easy."

Leon falls silent, and Marx throws a quick glance at Zero, who arches an expectant eyebrow.

"What of the body?" he asks quietly, tracking the way Leon's hands tighten to fists on his lap.

"Still there," Zero answers, and Marx's eyes snap back to the outlaw's, who gazes back at him impassively, easily meeting the stare of Nohr's heir. "I didn't have much time to do anything with it. Figured the important thing was getting Lord Leon away from it all."

Marx nods. "That was wise." He makes to stand, listening to his joints pop as he does. "I will dispose of it."

Leon just nods somewhat unsteadily, and Marx casts him an anxious look.

"Do not stray from him," he orders Zero, who replies with a single arched eyebrow as if to say _obviously._ "And call for Felicia or Flora. See that Leon is tended to."

Another sarcastic salute. Marx vaguely wonders how he can pull of such derision without speaking. He hopes Leon doesn't pick up the skill.

"Marx?"

Norh's heir looks back at the sound of his brother's voice, eyebrows raised in a question.

Leon won't meet his gaze.

"Tell the girl…tell her I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner." He looks up to look Marx's in the eyes—his own shiny with tears. "And tell her I hope she's okay."

 _How many times,_ Marx reflects grimly, turning away as Zero claps his liege on the shoulder, murmuring soft words of reassurement. _How many times must those he loves be made to suffer?_

He makes his way swiftly through the Castle—his form as silent and dark as the surrounding halls as he finally pushes his way into the room at the top of the Northern Fortress.

His eyes find Kamui first—always. She's nestled in an enormous swath of blankets on her bed, a steaming mug of something held between her pale hands. Around her are a trio of retainers—Camilla's Luna, Leon's Odin, and his own Lazward.

He hears a hiss of steel and his eyes snap to Luna as she sheaths the sword he hadn't even realized she held on him, giving him a steady look before flicking one of her ruby twintails over her shoulder and looking back to Kamui. Marx follows her gaze.

Odin—who had apparently been reaching for his tome—relaxes, offering the Prince a respectful nod.

"Lord Marx," the blond greets. Marx half-braces for one of the mage's long-winded, elaborate speeches, but it seems he's picked up on the mood and remains quiet at Kamui's side, only moving when Marx gestures for him to do so.

Lazward stands as well, and as he follows Luna and Odin to the door, he passes his lord, who catches his arm.

"The body?" he inquires lowly, catching his retainer's eye.

"Taken care of," Lazward answers, his voice strained in a way that reminds Marx of Gunther's old theories that somehow—despite his young age—the swordsman had seen war before.

Marx nods his approval. "Do not go far, I have a job for you," he adds in undertone, and Lazward nods his understanding.

Then all too suddenly they're alone—just as they always used to be. The door swings shut and for once, Marx has no idea what to do or say.

"Kamui," he greets her lowly, and she swallows hard as he brushes hair gently out of her eyes—the same thing he'd done for Leon, but for some reason the identical action feels so incredibly different—

_Things he's not thinking about._

"Hello," she replies quietly, gaze lost in her mug. Marx glances down at it, trying idly to guess its contents. She favors hot herbal teas, but he's fairly certain he's the only one who knows that, and she's instead been fixed a cup of hot chocolate.

Regardless, she hasn't touched it, and he watches as she tilts her wrist, making the dark liquid swirl around in her mug,

 _"Kamui,"_ he says again, kneeling down beside her, ducking his head down to her level to try and catch her gaze—those eyes he once couldn't escape, he now searches for desperately.

"Kamui, I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am—"

"That was your brother, wasn't it?" Still, her ruby eyes elude him. "The boy who burst into the tower."

Marx swallows hard. "Yes," he replies softly. "That was Leon."

"He tried to save me," she says quietly. "He didn't have any weapons, but he ran in, tried to—to push the woman away—"

Her voice breaks and Marx can all-too-easily see his brother—usually so cold and unsociable but as altruistic and valiant as any Nohrian Knight when he is needed most—sweeping into the chamber, risking his own life for a stranger's.

"Leon is the best of us," Marx murmurs, voice burning with the truth of it. He stares at the room's one window—the moonlight so bright he nearly has to squint against it. "He wanted to apologize to you. He wanted to make sure you were well."

"Will you tell him?" she asks, voice still hard, gaze still hidden.

Marx nods. "When he is well, yes. He's very shaken right now, as I'm sure you understand."

Silence rules for what feels like an eternity until she finally stirs, glancing up at him. Something in his chest loosens at finally catching her crimson stare.

"Hello," she says, her voice very small. She wipes absently at the tears on her face.

"Hello, little princess," he murmurs back, and she tries for a smile, though it falls quickly.

He longs to tell her something, anything— _everything_. How sorry he is, not just for this night, but for every night she has spent away from her home and her family. How he felt his heart cut ties with his chest when Leon told him what had happened. How that

To confess—however wrong and awful it is—how happy he is that despite the nature of their meeting, they were able to meet at all.

But he stays silent, sitting before her bed, watching as she begins to nod off despite her attempts to stay awake. He gently pries the mug of hot chocolate out of her hands and carefully picks her up to deposit her properly in her bed, pulling the covers over her and—after a brief flash of hesitation—kiss her softly on the forehead.

He finds Lazward waiting for him outside.

"Milord?" the swordsman asks. He can already guess what his instructions will be, and he only hopes his lord knows what he's doing.

"Guard her door," Marx orders. "No one save for Gunther is allowed to enter."

Lazward nods, accepting the command with no additional commentary. He's never heard Marx takes such a curt and dreadful tone before. It seems only the pale slip of a Princess can rouse such stark compulsion in the Prince's usually painstakingly picked actions.

"As you wish, milord." Lazward steps back to flank the door as Marx descends the steps, back down into the inky blackness of Castle Krakenberg.

He's barely made it a foot from the staircase when a figure moves in the darkness, and Marx spins in alarm.

Camilla emerges from the shadows wearing her riding gear, lavender hair windswept and wild in a thick braid.

Marx greets her with a terse nod as she draws closer.

"I heard everything from Luna," she tells him lowly, and Marx grits his teeth. Why does it seem like whenever one set of retainers learns something, it suddenly becomes common knowledge among the rest?

Still, he gives her a steady look. "I spoke with Leon himself," he murmurs.

Camilla's lips thin to a hard line. "Is he well?" she asks, voice tense and dark.

"He's shaken, but I think he'll be fine," Marx answers. He pauses. "Zero killed the assassin."

Camilla scoffs under her breath, looking away. "Lucky for her," she murmurs back. A pause. Both Royal siblings stand in the darkness of the corridor, wrapped up in their own thoughts.

After a moment, her gaze flickers back up to Marx's. "And Kamui? You aren't on a rampage, so I assume she's been safely tucked away somewhere?"

Marx scoffs at her words. "Safe as she can be," he mutters. "I left Lazward to guard her door."

Camilla arches a brow. "Are you sure that's wise?" she asks. "People will talk."

He knows she's right—Lazward is _his_ retainer. It is impossible to dissociate the two. To have his sworn shield stand at the side of another is…a very firm statement, to say the least.

And one that is not easily retracted.

"No one goes to the Northern Fortress," he says instead, voice firm. "No one but you or I or Gunther."

Camilla just gazes at him carefully, as though she's assessing the steadiness of his words—the strength of his resolve.

"I heed your advice in nearly every other matter, Sister," Marx tells her softly, sensing her argument before it comes the way one can sense an incoming storm. The two are not so different, after all. "But not this. Lazward will guard her door until such time as I deem it safe."

His sister just works her jaw, skirting his gaze as irritation rolls off of her in waves. She's tired—they all are, so godsdamned _tired—_ of the shadows that cling to their birthright. The dusk that runs bone-deep in these walls.

"When this goes to hell," Camilla's voice is careful, precise, and sharp as a blade. "And believe me, it will—I will be at your side in a heartbeat." She gazes at him evenly, no trace of jest in her rock crystal eyes. "You know that, yes?"

A genuine smile tilts Marx's lips for the first time that evening.

"Only if I am not at yours first," he tells her quietly, and she pulls him in for a tight hug.

-0-

"Is your friend in trouble?"

The question is posed to Marx brightly by Elise as the two lay in the grass of the castle's gardens.

Marx frowns, rolling over where he'd been on his back, assessing the youngest princess who is still staring determinedly up at the sky, making shapes out of the passing clouds.

"Elise?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Your friend," Elise chirps back. She stretches her tiny hands up towards the sky, like she's reaching out to grasp the clouds. After a moment of silence, she tilts her head, regarding him with wide, violet eyes as her hands drop back to her sides. She blinks owlishly at him.

"The girl in the tower," Elise says again, words sweet and light as ever. "Is she in trouble?"

Lazward—who had been relieved of his post outside Kamui's door only a few days earlier, a full two weeks after the assassination attempt—glances down from where he's standing guard a few yards away to exchange looks of puzzled alarm with his liege.

Marx pushes himself upright now, and Elise eagerly pulls herself up as well, cheerfully unaware of the panic her words have brought

"Elise," Marx begins carefully. _It is nothing,_ his subconscious chants. _Elise is just making up a story._

_**But what if she isn't?** _

"Yes?" she chirps, smiling faintly as Marx gazes at her steadily.

"Who told you about my friend in the Northern Fortress?" he asks.

Camilla and Kamui meet regularly now, having become fast friends. Nohr's eldest princess visits the young girl almost as much as Marx himself can. She had completely taken over nearly every aspect of Kamui's lifestyle in Castle Krakenberg—gathering an entire new wardrobe, decorating her room with flowers and paintings, gifting her with a treasure trove of trinkets and baubles. He is pleased with their relationship, truly, though he is often confused by the whispers and jokes they share in his presence.

Leon had—understandably—been difficult to coax back to the Northern Fortress, but eventually he and Kamui met as well. It was shy and awkward at first—Leon lacking Camilla's mastery of social skills and Kamui not knowing what to say—but after a hushed midnight trip to the library orchestrated by Marx and Camilla, the two became thick as thieves. Marx is certain they've snuck back to the restricted section more than a few times, but doesn't have the heart to scold them.

Elise, however, is still young. Too young, despite Camilla's protests, to be trusted with such a secret. Marx watches anxiously as Elise seems to ponder his question.

"Macbeth told me," Elise pipes up, and Marx feels his blood run cold in the heat of the day. "He said to ask you about it." She tilts her head to the side, wrinkling her nose. "I don't like him very much."

"Nor do I," Marx murmurs back, lurching to his feet. His head is spinning, heart picking up a panicked pace in his chest.

"Stay with Elise," Marx bites out, sweeping past Lazward who hastens to catch the young princess as she tries to follow her brother.

"Marx!" she shouts, squirming in Lazward's grasp. "Marx, _wait!"_

Siegfried clears its sheath with a crystalline ring and Marx's cloak snaps out behind him like a dark crack of thunder as he storms through the castle. Noonday from the high-set windows filters in, throwing shadows across the harsh angles of his face.

Guards and maids and courtiers all press back, giving him a wide berth and murmuring to each other—all eyes on this figure that teeters between being a Prince and being a King, armed with the legendary sword passed down from the hands of dead rulers.

He gains a companion as he sweeps through the halls, and he is prepared to bark an order of dissent when he sees a familiar flash of multi-colored hair, and realizes Pieri has fallen into step beside him, her spear gleaming malevolently in the light of the castle as she marches silently beside him, expression set and determined.

Marx marvels at that, a moment—she has no idea where he's going, or what has upset him so, but has already taken up arms against his foe.

 _"With all the respect in the word—if you don't trust us, who do you trust?"_ Lazward had asked—it feels like a lifetime ago.

Together they make their way up the winding staircase, only to find Kamui's door guarded by one of his father's retainers. Marx scowls as they settle on the landing.

"Stand aside." Marx's voice is bitterly cold and bites with a vengeance.

The guard flashes a savage grin. "Sorry, Princeling. I don't take orders from you."

Pieri's spear glints in the light as its swung around expertly—impaled just a _hair_ to the left of the guard's head. The deadly sharp tip shatters the ancient stonework, and Pieri holds it there, her usually expressive face drawn and serious.

"You know," she begins, the typical childish cadence of her voice replaced by something low and fierce and _feral._ "After you've seen as much blood as I have, you start to lose interest." She twists the shaft of her lance, and the steel screeches as it carves out a hole in the wall. "But I'm suddenly _very_ interested to see what yours looks like."

The guard's hand plunges down for his sword, but Pieri is faster as she pulls back her lance and swings it low to catch his knees, forcing him to stagger and fall as his balance is ripped from him.

He squirms to regain his footing, but stills when Pieri levels the spear at his neck, face suddenly split in a maniac grin.

"I think I like you _riiiiiight_ where you are," she sing-songs, and the guard can do nothing more than force a hard swallow as Marx nods his thanks at Pieri and shoulders the door to Kamui's room open.

Inside, he sees Kamui before anything—she'd huddled near her bookshelf, eyes fierce with anger but her bones shaking with fear—

"Kamui." He's at her side in an instant, moving swiftly through the door, cloak snapping behind him like it had that first night as he place himself between her and the room's other occupants.

Garon and Macbeth gaze back at him, and Marx's fingers flex on the hilt of his blade.

"Well met, Prince Marx," Macbeth greets, and Marx feels Kamui's fingers curl into his shirt as she draws nearer.

Marx has eyes only for the last man in the room. Garon towers above his son—more intimidating than he has ever seemed in the throne room, but Marx refuses to back down.

"Father," he says tersely. "What is the _meaning—?"_

"This has gone on long enough," Garon rumbles back, deftly cutting off his son's words, and Marx feels his heart hammer in his chest when the King's eyes find Kamui.

"What are you _talking—?"_

"Did you think no one _noticed,_ you foolish boy—"

"Let me _speak—!"_

Tension hangs like humidity, and Marx tightens his grip on Siegfried yet again. Garon's eyes drop to the movement.

"Sheath your sword," he orders after a moment.

Marx tenses where he stands.

"No."

He feels Kamui curl her hands tighter into his shirt—can just feel her nails scraping his skin.

The tension grows uneasy and hot. Marx wonders—for one wild, awful moment—if it will come to blows.

" _Perhaps,"_ Macebth drawls, stepping into Marx and Kamui's line of view. "Prince Marx is hoping to show Princess Kamui her knew family heirloom."

Part of Marx flies into a rage at hearing Kamui's name in Macbeth's voice, but more of him is cautious—concerned. He feels himself shift, blocking Kamui from view.

"What nonsense—" he begins thunderously.

"Kamui is of the Royal line," Garon intones darkly. "Siegfried has just as much a right to pass to her."

"Royal…line?" Marx frowns, gaze flickering between the two men, trying to decipher.

"Your sister," Macbeth chimes in, and Kamui tenses beside him. "Did Elise not tell you?" He smiles—Marx feels like the ground is slipping away beneath his feet.

"Sister?" he tastes the word, panic starting to rise like bile in his throat. "What could you possibly—"

"As of today." Garon seems tired of the games, and Macbeth obediently slinks back. "Kamui is to be considered a daughter of Nohr. _My_ daughter."

Marx remembers the day of his mother's funeral—the sunniest day in Nohr's history, and Marx had felt the whole world was in on a cruel joke. The gods were surely having a laugh at his wretched misfortune as the great Queen was laid to rest on such a bright, lovely day—the rare fair-weathered days she always delighted him.

Here and now, in the Northern Fortress, Marx reflects that he feels very much the same.

_Sister._

Marx feels ill.

"What is your _game?"_ he hisses—teeth bared, eyes narrowed. "Crown her as Nohrian _royalty?_ To what end? Do you think no one will notice? Do you think people won't talk? Do you think Hoshido will _tolerate—?"_

Macbeth _tut-tuts_ and Marx _barely_ resists the urge to take of his head with one steady swing of Siegfried.

"Come now, my lord, I thought you were something of a tactician. This is an act of _provocation."_ His voice is so oily and slick it makes Marx sick to his stomach, and he watches as Macbeth's yellow teeth appear with a crooked smile. "Have you been spending so much time with the girl you've forgotten who your enemy really is?"

Kamui makes a noise behind him and Marx's threatens to overheat, but he forces himself to stay calm, think rationally.

 _There is a way out of this,_ he urges himself, glaring into Macbeth's coal-dark eyes. _There has to be. If there's not—_

Marx grits his teeth.

"Why risk so much for only a phantom of a reward?" he demands. "Enrage Hoshido—to what end? You have no control over how they will react—no proof they will fall for whatever trap you've laid."

 _"She_ is your _sister."_ Garon's voice sounds like the clang of the gallows' chain. Marx fights the instinct to physically recoil from the words.

"I hate you." Kamui breaks her silence with a steely whisper. Marx glances down to see her fixing Garon with the starkest look of contempt he has ever seen—eyes so red and fearsome she looks like a dragon from the old tales—

Garon spares her a long look, lips quirking up in dark amusement.

"In time, my daughter—" Marx feels Kamui's fingers dig into his side at the title "—I think you will begin to see things my way, and we will get along very well."

Marx wants to counter—wants to fight and rail and _damn his father to all seven Hells—_

Garon glances at Marx, like he knows his thoughts, and Marx just gazes back at him evenly.

"Just know." Marx has no idea how he can muster the composure to speak coherently in this moment, but the words are there, undeniably his—

"From now on—from this moment until your last—I _will_ be fighting you. I will resist everything you do, sabotage all that I can, ruin every filthy scheme you make. I will _destroy—"_

"You will not," Garon interrupts smoothly, and Marx balks at the calmness with which is father treats his threat. The King inclines his head towards Kamui, who stiffens at the action.

"Not if you value your sister's well-being."

Kamui gasps quietly, and Marx can only stare and try not to sag under the weight of his new reality.

With one last steely look, Garon sweeps from the room, only for Macbeth to slink into his place.

"Could you imagine," Macbeth drawls. "What would happen if it got out that the Crown Prince of Nohr and a Princess of Hoshido were…" Marx's jaw tightens so much he fears it might fracture under the stress _"…friends?_ Perhaps, even someday, poised to become _more_ than—"

 _"Enough!"_ Kamui flinches into his side as Marx's order cracks across Macbeth's insinuation like a whip.

"A union between Nohr and Hoshido would ruin everything, dear Prince," Macbeth explains with a kind of calmness that nearly sends Marx into a rage. "We can't have you two getting along so well, we simply had to find a way to add a…degree of separation."

Marx's blood _boils._

"Get out." Marx's voice is white-hot, and with a serpentine grin, Macbeth quits the room.

Kamui doesn't move from his side—even now that they're alone, her hands stay fastened to his shirt. Marx reflects—dully, to himself—that her touch is probably the only thing keep him from destroying the room in anger.

His hand clenches around Siegfried's hilt so tightly the metal digs into his palm painfully.

_Fix this. He has to_ _**fix this.** _

He should have seen this coming. He should have known—things could never have lasted as they did. He should have taken more precautions, been more careful, heeded Aqua's word and _gods, Aqua, I'm so so sorry—_

His mind is spiraling out—he will have to inform Camilla, hatch some kind of plot, assign Gunther as her official Royal retainer before Garon has a chance to assign his own, he will have to throw himself into the war effort, find a way to treat with Hoshido behind his father's back—

Kamuo has been calling his name, and in a daze, Marx finally hears her, dropping down to kneel before her as she _cries—_

"Marx—" Tears stream down Kamui's face, and Marx is taken back to that first night when she'd hid behind the curtains, so afraid of everyone, of everything, of _him—_

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. He has nothing left to say—nothing left to give except, of course, _everything_ —but even _that_ does not feel like it's enough to right this wrong and _gods_ what are they going to _do—?_

"I will make this right, Kamui," he whispers to her fiercely. "I swear it."

 _Sister,_ his mind hisses. _Sister, sister,_ _ **sister—**_

_Things he's **not** thinking about._

"Good," she whispers, voice thick with tears, and Marx looks up to see her fixing him with a look of such stark determination he feels the breath knocked from his lungs. She meets his gaze evenly—blood red as always.

"I will too."

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a fic that I truly never thought would be a thing.
> 
> If you follow me on twitter, you know this is something I've been wrestling with since May of 2016. The story fell into my head while (I think) I was finishing my first playthrough of Conquest and the story was just really rubbing me the wrong way. Of course there's a suspension of disbelief that's demanded by all Fire Emblem games, but I felt like the story of the Fates universe could have been truly compelling if only some finer plot points had been...finer.
> 
> There's many flaws in this story too, don't get me wrong but like...I was a year in when I remembered the whole power struggle in Nohr between Garon's mistresses and basically said _fuck it_.
> 
> Anyway, have this twenty-one thousand word fic that's essentially my love/apology letter to Fates. I was needlessly critical of that game when it first came out, and regret wasting so much time being destructive and negative instead of using that energy to make something nice. Oh well. Here we are anyway.
> 
> I hope you like it. I don't feel like it's my best work by any stretch, but I'm very proud of having finished it. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Also, a special shout-out to [@EvaBeeSmith](https://twitter.com/EvaBeeSmith) for all her lovely Marx/Kamui art. It was such lovely inspiration while I was writing this fic.
> 
> _Like this piece? Here’s my billboard!_
> 
> **[MORE FIRE EMBLEM WRITING](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=Fire+Emblem&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&commit=Sort+and+Filter&user_id=MidwesternDuchess) **
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